This man could not, however, forget his original state, but while he received the homage due to royalty, he was conscious that the empire of the island did not belong to him; hence, his mind was actuated by two distinct trains of thought, one of which was predominant while he acted the part of a king, the other, when he reflected on his real condition, and recollected that it was a fortuitous circumstance which had placed him on a throne. In his ordinary intercourse with his subjects, he was influenced by the considerations which belonged to his assumed character; but in conversing with his own heart in solitude, he remembered that he was a shipwrecked mariner.

Do not imagine, Sir, that you are the master of ample possessions by circumstances less contingent than those by which this man was made a king. You have no more a natural right to an estate, than he had to a kingdom; and it is not only by a series of fortuitous incidents that you are the son of a Duke, but that you are even an inhabitant of this world. Your birth depended upon a marriage, or, rather, upon the successive marriages of all your ancestors. But what gave occasion to these marriages? Perhaps an accidental visit, a foolish conversation, a variety of other unforeseen circumstances. You have derived your estates, you say, from your ancestors. But was it not in the midst of a thousand hazards that your forefathers acquired and preserved them? Thousands of other men, with capacities equal to theirs, have either never gained riches, or having acquired them, they have been afterwards impoverished.

You likewise imagine, that your for tune has descended from them to you, by some law of Nature; but this is a gross mistake. The laws of inheritance were derived from the will of the legislators, who had, no doubt, good reasons for what they ordained; but certainly they never supposed that you had a natural and original right to those possessions. If they had thought good to enact that parents should only enjoy their property during life, and that after their decease their wealth should devolve to the republic, you would have had no just ground of complaint. Hence

the title by which you hold your estate is not founded upon a natural right, but is derived from a human Establishment; and a different turn of mind in those who made the laws, might have reduced you to the condition of a poor man.

Since it was, therefore, by a concurrence, of contingent circumstances that you came into being, it was by incidents no less casual that you are now in the possession of your fortune. I do not say that your Estate does not lawfully belong to you, or that any one has a right to deprive you of it; for God, who is the supreme law-giver, has delegated authority to human legislators, to frame laws for the division of property, and when these are once enacted, it is highly unjust to violate them. There is this difference, therefore, between you and the man of whom we have been speaking; he holds the kingdom by an error of the people, and God does not authorize him to retain it; while your Estates are held by a just and legal title yet you, nevertheless, resemble each other in one material circumstance, that the title, by which you and he enjoy your possessions, is not founded upon any superior excellence or intrinsic merit, giving you a natural claim to them.

Your soul and your body are in themselves indifferent to the station of a Waterman or to that of a Duke; nor is there any natural tie by which they are connected with one condition rather than the other. What consequence may be fairly deduced from this? That you ought, like the shipwrecked man, to have two different modes of thinking of yourself; for while in your intercourse with mankind you speak and act according to the rank and station which you fill in society, it becomes you to cherish an interior consciousness, strictly accordant with truth, that you possess no natural superiority over your fellow-creatures.

If you consider yourself, when in public, as elevated above the common orders of men, feel at the same time an internal humiliation, reducing you to and equality with those around you, for this is in reality your state by nature. The multitude, who admire you, are not perhaps acquainted with this secret, since they generally regard nobility as

a state of real greatness, and are ready to consider persons of high rank as endowed with a nature different from their inferiors. You need not correct this error of theirs unless you please; but beware of disgracing your elevated condition by insolence; and, above all things, never delude yourself by a false persuasion, that you are in reality superior to the rest of mankind.

What would you say of the man who was raised to a throne by the mistake of the people, if he should so far forget his original situation, as to fancy that the kingdom belonged to him by a just title, that he was worthy of it, and was the rightful possessor? Would you not stand amazed at his stupidity and folly? But would it be less absurd in persons of quality, to live in the same strange forgetfulness of their natural state and condition? These are considerations of the greatest importance. The intemperate behaviour, the outrages and the haughtiness of the great, commonly spring from an ignorance of themselves; since it would be very difficult for those who were inwardly convinced that all men are their equals, and that God has not conferred these small advantages of rank or fortune upon them, on account of any intrinsic merit which they possess above others, to treat their fellow-creatures with insolence and contempt. The man who can act thus, must forget himself, and seriously believe that he is indeed endowed with some actual and superior excellence, beyond what is communicated to the rest of his fellow-creatures. It is this false opinion which constitutes the illusion, I am now endeavouring to display before you.

(To be continued.)

To the Editor of the Christian Observer. SIR, The following seasonable little piece merits as wide a circulation as possible. I therefore send it for insertion in your first number.

P. O.

occurred on my first receiving the wel

come news.

You know I am an invalid and growing into years; and as age and sickness naturally seek quiet, I retire during the summer months to a small village in Surrey, which lies some miles from the high road. Here indeed, I obtain a re. lief which the town does not afford; but one inconvenience attends our situation, we have no means of knowing what is going on in the busy world, except the tidings which a gentleman from the city brings, who visits his family here once a week; and also what we learn from our weekly paper.

Now, our friend, whose return on the Saturday we eagerly watch, came down, and astonished us with the unexpected news of─PEACE! A knot of neighbours was soon assembled to hear the account; but though a few rejoiced that a stop would at length be put to the effusion of blood, and the cries of widows and orphans-that provisions would be cheaper-trade flourish the occasion of much enmity be removed, &c. &c. yet I could perceive other springs at work. One who had a house and land to sell, listened eagerly, and hoped Peace would bring Purchasers.--A poor fabourer crossed the road, and tried to edge in his thought, that bread, though fallen, would be still lower.-A farmer stood thoughtful, but said nothing.-Another, who had served a neighbouring camp, doubted, after all, what sort of a peace this might turn out.-But, our carpenter was loud on the occasion: "Peace, at any rate," said he, "is best for the nation: Deals will come down finely now, I'll warrant ye."

We, however, set the bells a ringing immediately, though late on the Satur day evening; we went to church the next day, but thought and talked too much of the Peace and its consequences; and, on the Monday, we were all alive in preparing to celebrate it. Though I bear the character of a pre

"SECOND THOUGHTS ARE BEST

DEAR SIR,

وو

Oct. 15, 1801. I RECEIVED your letter, desiring a few thoughts on the Peace, which you wish to disperse in your populous neighbourhood; though I can say nothing as a politician, yet, rather than disoblige you by saying nothing at all, I will tell you what Christ. Observ. No. 1.

deavoured to join my neighbours in their expressions of joy. I lighted up my windows; I suffered my children and servants in the evening to be the endangered spectators of the blaze and noise with which the village was filled: I contributed to the ringing, though I feared it would end in drunkenness: and D

rather encouraged the discharge of guns, squibs, and crackers, though disorder and mischief were the probable consequences.

But the occasion was great, and I was willing to appear pleased, as I really was. "These expressions," said I to myself, "of our general joy must not be strictly scrutinized as to the manner."

At length I put out my snuffs of candles, and after hearing the narrow escapes of my children from being set on fire by the squibs, and reproving my maid for staying out too late among greater mischiefs than squibs, we retired to rest.

Presently after this came our newspaper, and amused us afresh; we found that the display which had thrown our villagers into amazement, was but as a rushlight in the general blaze of joy. We read of the ingenious and expensive devices with which the metropolis and other great towns were illuminated;-of feastings, of processions, of bands of music, of military salutations, and of mail coaches covered with trophies, met by parties, and drawn home in triumph without horses.

"Well," said I, "the occasion is great, and big with benefits of various kinds far more extensive than we can fully comprehend. What kind of man is he that can be unmoved! Certainly he must be stupid and infatuated to a high degree! He must be

But, stay a little ;-may we not mistake on the other side?-May we not be so carried away by a present benefit, as to quite lose sight of a CREATOR? Let us think again. Is the Bible a fable?-Is time of more importance than eternity? Are we perishing sinners quite sober in being so alive to temporal events, while eternal ones seem constantly forgotten? -Let us think again."

Repeating this in different ways as I sat dosing by the fire-side, my imagination presented to me a number of persons in a vessel at sea, which had nearly been wrecked by a violent storm. The pilot told them they could stay but a little while longer on board, but if they took to the boat, and by the help of their compass, made directly for the next harbour, they might yet be secure; but said he, "if you stay here, talking of the late storm, and riotously enjoying your escape, we may all yet go to the bottom."

"Hold your tongue, you dull blockhead," said one, "no croaking here."— "Tap the cask," said another." A song, a song," cried a third. Clamour soon drowned remonstrance; and thus scorning the pilot's counsel, they sat down together to enjoy themselves, with their backs to the harbour. But, while the song was singing, a mighty wave rolled, and (except the pilot, who had leaped into the boat) they all went down together.

This revery turned my mind into a new train of thinking. When I first sat down, the present Peace seemed to be every thing, but now it appeared coмPARATIVELY to be nothing. "Every thing," said I, to myself, "is great or little by comparison. What is this Peace which seems to carry away the hearts and thoughts of the nation, when compared with the Peace proclaimed from above, through a Redeemer, sung by angels at his birth, purchased by his death, and by which he opened the kingdom of heaven to all believers?"

The present Peace is proclaimed to a few countries, but the eternal Peace to all nations. Wise men fear the present Peace will still leave us in danger from the seducing arts and deranging principles of our enemies; but the Peace of the Gospel secures its children not only against the craft and malice of the world, but also of the flesh and the devil. The present Peace still leaves us under many wants; it cannot relieve us under pain of body or mind; we may still remain erring, afflicted, depraved, guilty, dying sinners; but the Peace of God bringeth a guide to the wanderer, comfort to the afflicted, grace to the depraved, pardon to the guilty, and eternal life to the dying. The present Peace may be broken almost as soon as it is made, but the Peace from above has this charter

-The mountains shall de

part and the hills be removed, but my kindness shall not depart from thee; neither shall the covenant of my peace be removed, saith the Lord, that hath mercy on thee.” (Is. liv. 10.) Once more; the present Peace, however lasting, can last but a short time to any of us who have been so animated by the news, but that Peace which is secured by the promise and oath of God, (Heb. vi. 18.) to those who flee for refuge to the hope set before them in Christ Jesus, cannot be disturbed by

time or death; time but ripens it, and death perfects it. For the righteous hath hope in his death-He shall enter into peace.

In a word, the Peace of God, unlike all other, is proposed most freely to every man; it is attended with no danger; it will meet every want; it admits of no hazard, and can never end. Whoever, therefore, continues madly to despise counsel, and perish in a vessel that soon must sink, let us be wise; let us hearken to counsel before it is too late; let us take to the boat, and make for the harbour; that while others, like the sottish sailors, think of nothing but the peace and festivity of a moment, we may secure a peace and prosperity which shall last for ever. I am, &c.

To the Editor of the Christian Observer. SIR,

R.C.

THE following ACCOUNT OF A DESCENT INTO THE CRATER OF MOUNT VESUVIUS, BY EIGHT FRENCHMEN, on the night between the 18th and 19th of July, 1801, is worthy, for its curiosity, of a place in your Miscellany. The relation, it will be readily seen, is that of a Frenchman; for it is deeply tinged with that national vanity which is so common and so characteristic, that it is more frequently ridiculous than offensive. As this very probably led the narrator to exaggerate the difficulties, we must abate something from the apparent temerity of the enterprise; the success of which, however, must have depended upon the quiet state of the Volcano, and may lead to the frequent renewal of such attempts, when the mountain seems to promise repose; till some rash adventurer pays the forfeit of his curiosity.

The works of God are worthy to be had in reverence, and there are some which are a kind of holy ground, where we must stand at a distance and adore. It would be a question with me, whether I were not tempting Providence, in adventuring my life under such circumstances and for such ends. A philosophist, whose deity is science, would deride my scruples; but I would rather stand upon the brink of the crater, with my heart elevated and expanded by a view of the greatness of God's works, and my spirit touched

with a holy awe that made me hear, as it were, his voice, saying, "Hitherto shalt thou come, but no farther," than with the mind and motives of a philosophist, cultivate science in the very jaws of destruction.

This article first appeared in the French periodical work, the Journal de Physique. The following translation of it is given in the Philosophical Magazine. Yours, &c. A. T.

To ascend to the summit of Mount Vesuvius, which is elevated 3600 feet above the level of the sea, is an enterprise of great difficulty, as it is necessary for nearly half the height to climb an exceedingly steep declivity up to the knees in ashes. Some philosophical men of eminence, however, as Spallanzani, Dolomieu, Dr. Moore, &c. have overcome all these difficulties. Sir William Hamilton, who caused a great many views of Vesuvius to be designed during his long residence in Naples, ascended to the summit of it sixty-two times; but no one, at least since the eruption in 1779, ever ventured to descend into the crater of this volcano, not even Sir William Hamilton, who considered it under so many points of view, and who visited it so many times. It was reserved for eight Frenchmen to hazard this dangerous enterprise, and to succeed in it completely, notwithstanding the timidity of their guides, the impossibility which the Neapolitans attached to it, and the instances they mentioned of rash travellers, who had lost their lives in the attempt, and been swallowed up by the volcano.

To be able to appreciate the danger of this enterprise, it will be necessary to have a correct idea of the form and position of Vesuvius, and of the matters which it throws up. This volcano has the form of a truncated cone, and a part of its base, which is altogether three leagues in circumference, is washed by the Mediterranean; its mouth, or upper base, which is a little inclined to the axis, is 5722 feet in circumference. The earth, from the base to half the height, consists of vegetable mould mixed with lava and stones, which have not been attacked by the fire, tufas, pumice, and calcareous stones, different in their nature

and colour, according to the different degrees of impression which have been made on them by the fire.

The half of the height next the summit is composed chiefly of pure ashes, but coarser than our ashes. Till the present time, there have been twenty-four eruptions recorded in history. The first took place in the year 79 after the Christian era: by these eruptions, volcanic matters have been successively accumulated, but by that of 1779 the situation of the crater and of the aperture was entirely changed. The focus or crater is now sunk 200 feet below the upper edges of the mouth of the volcano.

To arrive at the crater, and to observe the numerous spiracles, long crevices, and fires which issue from them in several places, and also the variegated and still smoking matters of which the crater is composed, it was necessary to pass over this space of 200 feet.

The inner sides of the volcano are nearly perpendicular, or exceedingly steep, and composed of ashes, lava, and large calcareous stones; but these lava and stones, as they form no connection with the ashes, cannot serve as any point of support; and when any one is so imprudent as to adhere to this kind of rock, the least motion, the least displacement of any part, makes the whole crumble to pieces. Besides, from the summit of Vesuvius to the crater, the declivity, being exceedingly rapid, cannot be traversed but on all fours, and suffering yourself to glide down amidst a torrent of ashes and lava.

But the most dangerous obstacles are those awful excavations, which cannot be passed over without great trouble and difficulty.

Disregarding the terror with which the Neapolitans endeavoured to inspire us, after having received their adieus, as if our separation had been likely to be eternal, we set out in a carriage, at half after eleven at night, on the 18th July, from the hotel of the French Ambassador, fourteen in number, furnished with ropes and other articles which we supposed might be neces sary, and all in a state of the highest spirits, which never forsook us, even at times of the most imminent danger. We arrived about midnight at the foot of Vesuvius; and, having quitted our

carriage, mounted well-experienced mules, and proceeding one after the other, with Adjutant Dampierre at our head, amidst the thick darkness of night, reached half way to the steep summit of the mountain. We had a numerous body of guides, and their lighted torches gave to our expedition a mysterious and solemn air, which formed a striking contrast with the mirth and gayety of the company.

When we had ascended about half way, we were obliged to alight, and to clamber up the steepest and most difficult part of Vesuvius, wading through the ashes up to the knees, till, exhausted with fatigue, and covered with sweat, we reached the summit at half past two in the morning.

The first thing that struck us, as soon as the morning began to dawn, was a most magnificent spectacle-a superb view of the city and port of Naples, the beautiful hills which surround them, and the vast extent of the sea by which they are washed. After walking round part of the aperture of the volcano, that we might choose the most commodious place for descending, Adjutant Dampierre and Wickar first descended, without any accident, at the 'determined point. When they had got about a third of the way, they were suddenly stopped by an excavation of fifty feet, which it was necessary to pass. As they found that it was impossible to obtain any fixed point of support on ashes so moveable, and being convinced that the friction of ropes would have soon destroyed both the point of support and the neighbouring masses to a great distance, they resolved to return. sides, while deliberating on the means of descending, some stones rolling down from the summit occasioned a general agitation wherever they passed: Adjutant Dampierre found the ground on which he stood shake beneath his feet; and he had scarcely quitted it, calling out to Wickar to follow him, when it disappearedSoon after, indeed, the whole place where they had stood, and all the neighbouring small eminencies, crumbled down successively, in the course of half an hour, and were precipitated to the bottom of the crater with an awful noise.

Be