Prayer, my children, is the deareſt privilege of man, and the ſupport of a feeling heart. Mine has too often been wounded by ingratitude; my fellow-creatures, whom I have fondly loved, have neglected me—I have heard their laſt ſigh, and thrown my eyes round an empty world; but then more particularly feeling the preſence of my Creator, I poured out my ſoul before Him, and was no longer alone! I now daily contemplate His wonderful goodneſs; and, though at an awful diſtance, try to imitate Him. This view of things is a ſpur to activity, and a conſolation in diſappointment.
There is in fact a conſtant intercourſe kept up with the Creator, when we learn to conſider Him as the fountain of truth, which our underſtanding naturally thirſts after. But His Goodneſs brings Him ſtill more on a level with our bounded capacities, for we trace it in every work of mercy, and feel, in ſorrow particularly, His fatherly care. Every bleſſing is doubled when we ſuppose it comes from Him, and
