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FEAR.

SOME, for fear of want,

Want all their lives; and others every day,
For fear of dying, suffer worse than death.
Ah! from your bosoms banish, if you can,
That fatal guest, I mean the demon, Fear,
That trembles at impossible events,
Lest aged Atlas should resign his load,
And Heaven's eternal battlements rush down.
Is there an evil worse than fear itself?
And what avails it, that indulgent Heaven
From mortal eyes has wrapt the woes to come,
If we, ingenious to torment ourselves,
Grow pale at hideous fictions of our own?
Enjoy the present, nor with needless cares

Of what may spring from blind Misfortune's womb,
Appal the surest hour that life bestows;

Serene and master of yourself prepare

For what may come, and leave the rest to heaven.

Armstrong.

THE POST.

THERE is, perhaps, no possible event that would cause so great a revolution in the state of modern society as the cessation of the post. A comet coming in collision with the earth could alone cause a greater shock to its inhabitants; it would shake nations to their centre. It would be a sort of imprisonment of the universal mind - a severing of the affections, and a congelation of thought. It would be building up a wall of partition between the hearts of mother and child, and husband and wife, and brother and sister. It would raise Alps between the breasts of friend and friend; and quench, as with an ocean, the love that is now breathed out in all its glowing fervour, despite of time or place. What would be all the treasures of the world, or all its praise, to a feeling heart, if it could no longer pour out its fulness to its chosen friend, whom circumstances had removed afar off? What could solace the husband

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or the father, during his indispensable absence from the wife of his affections, or the child of his love, if he had no means of assuring them of his welfare and his unalterable love; and what could console him, could he not be informed of theirs? Life, in such circumstances, would be worse than a blank; it would be death to the soul, but death without its forgetfulness. Write soon pray do write soon and often. are among the last words we breathe into the ear of those we love, while we grasp the hand, and look into the eye that will soon be far from us. What other consolation or hope is left us, when the rumbling wheel, or the swelling sail, is bearing that beloved being far from us, while we stand fixed to the spot where that object uttered its last adieu ? If ever mortal deserved a monument to perpetuate his memory, it was the inventor of writing (what are the claims of kings or conquerors in the comparison?) it is the next best gift to life itself, and, deprived of it, life would hardly be worth the possessing: it is truly like the air we breathe; if we have it not we die. The best enjoyments of being emanate from this divine art it pours the brightest sunshine that illumines the desolate path of life; without it, the gift of genius would be bestowed in vain, and talent

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would expire unseen and unenjoyed, like the bright flowers of an uninhabited region. And without the medium of communication by the post, even this world would be divested of half its advantages; with a cheapness that no other mode can compete with, a swiftness that none else can rival, and a certainty and dependence that no other can offer, it presents the finest instance of communication between men that the world has ever witnessed. Crowned heads, and the nobles of the land, might, indeed, send their communications by messengers, or couriers, but these would hardly be available for the merchant, and not at all for the tradesman or artizan. But now we can receive the most needful intelligence, or the kindest effusions of regard, from a distance of nearly three hundred miles, for almost nothing; and, in four or five days, a letter may be despatched, and an answer received, from the metropolis to the Land's End in Cornwall.

I never see the mail flying along the road, with its lamps gleaming through the darkness, and its horn breaking the stillness of midnight, but I think of the thousand intense interests that are conveyed in its packages. The timely assistance which it is conveying to solace, and perhaps to save, the distressed

the pleadings of love, the outpourings of friendship, and the supplications of despair—the joys and the sorrows of the heart, are all going to their respective destinations, to carry peace or hope, succour or sympathy, to the bosoms that need them. To some it will terminate a suspense worse than death. To whole families, deprived of the means of existence, it will carry plenty and peace. It oft makes whole the breaking heart, revives the sinking spirit, and illumes the haggard eye; and, if it do convey some sad intelligence, it is that which must be known, and is always better known than feared.

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The post is the most perfect system of intercourse that has ever been devised -it scatters wealth and happiness in a thousand directions. No place is too distant for it to reach no village too insignificant sun, dispensing delight, it

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for it to visit. Like the goes its daily journey. The heats of summer, and the cold of winter, are not allowed to intercept or retard it. In spite of Malthus, and all the economists, it carries on the important business of courtship, and leads to matrimony, whether for better or worse. It solaces the lover's sorrow, and transmits hope through many a cruel league. The bashful bachelor, who has not courage to make a personal declaration, may

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