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The due and proper use of any natural faculty or power is to be judged of by the end and design for which it was given us. The chief purpose for which the faculty of speech was given to man, is, plainly, that we might communicate our thoughts to each other, in order to carry on the affairs of the world; for business, and for our improvement in knowledge and learning. But the good Author of our nature designed us not only necessaries, but likewise enjoyment and satisfaction, in that being He hath graciously given, and in that condition of life He hath placed us in.

There are secondary uses of our faculties; they administer to delight, as well as to necessity: and as they are equally adapted to both, there is no doubt but He intended them for gratification, as well as for the support and continuance of our being. The secondary use of speech is to please and be entertaining to each other in conversation. This is in every respect allowable and right:

it unites men closer in alliances and friendships; gives us a fellow-feeling of the prosperity and unhappiness of each other; and is in several respects serviceable to virtue, and to promote good behaviour in the world. And provided there be not too much time spent in it, if it were considered only in the way of gratification and delight, men must have strange notions of God and of religion, to think that He can be offended with it, or that it is any way inconsistent with the strictest virtue. But the truth is, such sort of conversation, though it has no particular good tendency, yet it has a general good one: it is social and friendly, and tends to promote humanity, good-nature, and civility.

The government of the tongue, considered as a subject of itself, relates chiefly to conversation; to that kind of discourse which usually fills up the time spent in friendly meetings, and visits of civility. And the danger is, lest persons entertain themselves and others at the expense of their wisdom and their virtue, and to the injury or offence of their neighbour. If they will observe, and keep clear of these,

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MATRIMONY.-I shall always endeavour to make choice of a woman for my spouse who hath first made choice of Christ as a spouse for herself; that none may be made one flesh with me who is not also made one spirit with Christ my Saviour. For I look upon the image of Christ as the best mark of beauty I can behold in her, and the grace of God as the best portion I can receive with her. These are excellencies, which, though not visible to carnal eyes, are nevertheless agreeable to a spiritual heart, and such as ail wise and good men cannot but be enamoured with. For my own part, they seem to me such necessary qualifications, that my heart trembles at the thought of ever having a wife without them. If I should court and marry a woman for riches, then, whensoever they fail, or take their flight, my love and my happiness must drop and vanish together with them. If I choose her for beauty only, I shall love her no longer than while it continues, which is only till age or sickness blasts it; and then farewell at once both duty and delight. But if I love her for her virtues, and for the sake of God, who has enjoined it as a duty, that our affections should not be alienated, or separated by any thing but death, then, though all the other sandy foundations fail, yet will my happiness remain entire. If ever, therefore, it be my lot to enter into the holy state of

matrimony, I beg of God, that he would direct me in the choice of such a wife only, to lie in my bosom here, as may afterwards be admitted to rest in Abraham's bosom to all eternity-such a one as will so live, and pray, and converse with me upon earth, that we may be both entitled to sing, to rejoice, and be blessed together, for ever, in heaven. Bp. Beveridge.

Be content to keep within your station, and adorn it by the virtues which its duties require.



The MALTA PENNY MAGAZINE is published and sent to subscribers, in Valletta, every Saturday. Subscriptions at 1s. per quarter received at No. 97 Str. Forni.

No. 55.

Saturday, Sept. 26th. 1840.


Whoever sojourns at Naples, were it only for a day, experiences the irresistible desire of going to see what is passing at the bottom of that crater which perpetually smokes. It is especially towards evening, when the sun has disappeared beneath the horizon, that the vapours of Vesuvius assume a denser tint, and deck its summit with a bouquet of brighter whiteness. At Resina you find horses, donkeys, and conducters, who convey travellers half way up the mountain to the spot called the "Hermitage." This first ride is not an uninteresting one. Here nature is not yet dead. You pass through vineyards, planted in ashes, which yield the celebrated Lachryma Christi wine, two sorts of which are much inferior to their fame; then come some nameless trees, the foremost sentinels of vegetation, which the next eruption will devour, and lastly you reach the "Hermitage," surrounded on all sides save one by the lava of 1794, 1810, 1813, and 1822. Here you alight and enter a region of chaos. No more trees, vegetation, birds, or insects are to be seen Every thing is dark, bristling with points, rent into deep and rugged fractures, covered with scoria of a sulphurous smell, which tear your feet before they burn them. You are now at the foot of the cone; all that remains to be done is to ascend vertically along the external sides of the volcano, halting on your way to cast a glance at a lateral plateau, called La Somma, which was no doubt at one time the main focus of Vesuvius. It your heart has not failed you along this ladder of dried lava, you will reach the top of the volcano in three quarters of an hour. Here the sight begins-a terrible, original, and unexpected one, notwithstanding all the descriptions given of it. Imagine a funnel five hundred mètres deep, whose upper edges present innumerable crevices,

(Price ld.

whilst from the lower part rise clouds of sulphurous vapour, which escapes by numberless apertures, bordered with dust of a lively orange colour. If you stop to admire in the distance the city of Naples, softly spreading round the gulf, and at your feet the ever smoking crater, you feel the fire penetrating your boots, and the guide will urge you to walk, in order to avoid accidents. The ground, when strongly struck, yields a certain metallic sound, and as you go round the mountain you meet with gaping apertures, at the bottom of which burns a red and fattish flame. I have plunged into one of these pits a long chesnut-tree stick, fresh cut and covered with its still moist bark, and it has instantly caught fire. As you kneel before those infernal gates to ascertain their depth, you distinctly perceive within hand-reach the flame bending upon itself, dense, quiet, and almost limpid; it discharges clouds of sulphurous acid gas, which excite a cough, and soon compel the observer to quit the spot. The ground, if such a name can be given to the dangerous floor which covers the orifice of the volcano, is strewed with grey lava, ashes, melting sulphur, and pyrite substances, whence escapes, at intervals, a white smoke, which affects your eyes and lungs, and yet you cannot retire without reluctance from that awful scene. One can scarcely conceive how that crater, so narrow in its lower part, has vomited heaps of lava large enough to form a mountain four times as bulky as the Vesuvius itself, without mentioning the ashes, small pebbles, and masses of boiling water, which the wind has sometimes carried to enormous distances.

Notwithstanding its fearful aspect, the Vesuvius may be easily approached even when its eruptions take place. The lava itself, whose progress is so formidable and inflexible, advances with extreme slowness. One has time to avoid or fly before it. The

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slightest obstacle stops it; it turns round objects, burns them if they be combustible, and envelopes and petrifies them as it cools, if they be not so. Thus it is that the city of Herculaneum has been sealed into a semimetallic mass, and, as it were, cast in the lava which now covers it. Pompeii has disappeared under a discharge from Vesuvius, under a shower of ashes and little stones which have gradually, though rapidly, covered it, just as certain Alpine villages disappear beneath the snow in our severe winters. Such is the reason why so much money has been expended in uncovering but a few small parts of Herculaneum, namely its theatre, which continues hid in utter darkness; whilst a third part of Pompeii has been cleared, exhibits itself to the open sky, and renders us contemporary with its inhabitants. Let us, therefore, hasten down the Vesuvius and view its ravages, which have been miraculously preserved for us in its whole splendour, a city of thirty thousand souls buried for eighteen hundred years past. (To be continued.)

Excuses for not attending Public Worship.Overslept myself-could not dress in time-Too cold-too hot-too windy-too dusty. Too wet -too damp-too sunny-too cloudy. Don't feel disposed. No other time to myself-look over my drawers. Put my papers to rights. Letters to write to my friends. Taken a dose of physic. Going to take a ride. Tied to business six days in the week. No fresh air but on Sunday. Can't breathe in church, always so full. Feel a little

feverish. Feel a little chilly. Feel very lazy. Expect company to dinner. Got a headache. Intend nursing myself to-day. New bonnet not come home. Wasn't shaved in time. Tore my muslin dress coming down stairs. Got a new novel, must be returned on Monday morning. Don't like the liturgy, always praying for the same thing. Don't like extempore prayer--don't know what is coming. Don't like the band-'tis too noisy. Don't like singing-makes me nervous. Can't sit in a draft of air-windows or door open in summer. Can't bear extempore sermon-too frothy. Dislike a written sermon-too prosing. Nobody to day but our minister-can't always listen to the same preacher. Don't like strangers -spurn them with contempt. Can't keep awake when at church. Snored aloud last time I was there-shan't risk it again. Mean to inquire of some sensible person about the propriety of going to so public a place as church.


Dr. ARNOTT gives the following amusing summary of the powers of the steam-engine, and of the objects upon which they have been employed.

In its present perfect state, the steam-engine appears a thing almost endowed with intelligence. It regulates with perfect accuracy and uniformity the number of its strokes in a given time, and counts and records them moreover, to tell how much work it has done, as a clock records the beats of its pendulum; it regulates the quantity of steam admitted to work, the briskness of the fire, the supply of water to the boiler, the supply of coals to the fire; it opens and shuts its valves with absolute precision as to the time and manner; it oils its joints; it takes out any air that may ac cidentally enter any part that should be vacuous: and when anything goes wrong, which it cannot of itself rectify, it wants its attendants by ringing a bell;-yet, with all these talents, and even when possessing the power of a hundred horses, it is obedient to the hand of a child: it never tires, and wants no sleep; it is not subject to malady, when originally well made; and only refuses to work, when worn out with age; it is equally active in all climates, and will do work of any kind; -it is a water-pumper, a miner, a sailor, a cottonspinner, a weaver, a blacksmith, a miller, &c., and a small engine, in the character of a steam-pony, may be seen dragging after it on a railroad a hundred tons of merchandise, or a regiment of soldiers, with greater speed than that of our fleetest coaches. It is the king of machines, and a permanent realization of the genii of eastern fable, whose supernatural powers were occasionally at the command of man.

In order, however, that the steam-engine may perform these wonders, and work in any of the capacities which have been enumerated, two things are necessary. The engine must be fed; and as its parts become worn by use, they must be repaired. It must be supplied with coals, wood, charcoal, or other combustible matter, and water, which it converts into power; and when the machinery is injured, what is imperfect must be changed and replaced.

The machinery of the animal frame works under the same conditions. In order that it may energize, it must have food; and that it may not sensibly be deteriorated by use, it must undergo constant repairs. But there is this difference in the two cases. In the animal frame, the source both of its energies and of its structural restoration is one and the same. Its food furnishes both.

The blood, which is formed from our food,
flowing to the brain and the muscles, and
the stomach, not merely maintains their
power, but in addition carries to the same
parts, and to all the rest, the materials of
their growth and renovation.

of themselves. And if the principles have
already been laid down by many writers,
no one, it is probable, can attentively re-
consider this subject, without seeing some
of its bearings more justly and usefully than
his predecessors have done.
[Abridged from MAYO's Philosophy of Living.]

The supply of food to the steam-engine has one purpose only to effect. It is, again, administered with absolute precision as to time and quantity; for it is meted out by those who understand the construction and working of the machinery, who know its wants exactly, and have no bias from prejudice or inclination to supply them otherwise than with rigorous exactness.

The food of human beings, more complicated in its objects, is meted out under much less favourable circumstances. The party who apportions it, for the most part, does not understand the action or the wants of the machine which he undertakes to supply; and what is more, for a long period is not only incurious on the subject, but often disposed to repel any information which may fall in his way. His motive for conveying aliment into his inside is of a totally different complexion to a calculated forethought of the needs of his economy: his exclusive object. is to please two senses, and to gratify two appetites; perhaps he besides takes delight in the whirl into which the machinery is thrown by excess, that fills him with giddy transport, while it undermines his existence. Well, indeed, may Dr. Beaumont say, "In the present state of civilized society, with the provocatives of the culinary art, and the incentives of highly-seasoned food, brandy and wines, the temptations of excess in the indulgence of the table are rather too strong to be resisted by poor human nature."

Every one who has reached the middle of life must have had occasion to observe how much his comfort and his powers of exertion depend upon the state of his stomach, and will have lost some of his original indifference to rules of diet. Such rules must especially interest those who have the care of others,-of children with delicate health,-of the aged, who have ceased. to exert their former care and observation


Он, how I love a quiet Christian! There must be men of energy and ardour; meu zealous enough to undertake and carry on what more timid and retired spirits are unequal to; but there is something very pleasant and wondrously influential in a quiet Christian.

Do you ever meet with discipies of Christ of this kind, who make no bustle about their profession, but set it forth in their daily walk and behaviour? Men, whose very appearance is a text, and whose lives are profitable sermons. My old friend Nathaniel is one of this kind; you never see his name at the head of a subscription list, nor hear his voice in a controversy. These things are out of his way; and yet if I were called upon to point out a truly God-fearing man, a devoted servant of Christ, I would put my hand on his shoulder, and say reverently, in the words used by our blessed Saviour, “Behold an Israelite, indeed, in whom is no guile!"

Nathaniel is a man slow to promise, and prompt to perform. Oh, what a fuss have I known a man, who has plenty to spare, make, before now, with a subscription for a poor widow! running from one to another, quoting texts of Scripture in commendation of charity, and advocating the widow's cause with a loud voice, wiping the perspiration from his face with his hankerchief, having a world to do, and a world to say about the affair, while all the time his name was put down for only five shillings. Nathaniel is one that, in such a case, quietly inquires into the character and circumstances of the party, and slips a ten-pound note into the widow's hand when no other eyes are on him than the eyes of the Eternal.

Often and often have I sat with Nathaniel by the hour together, without his uttering so much as a single word, for he says little, and thinks much. The peaceful repose of his countenance when reading his Bible, is a study, and the placid smile that now and then spreads over his features, tells you that he is banqueting on heavenly food.

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