Divines repeatedly assure us, that we owe Providence infinite gratitude for the numberless blessings it bestows. They loudly extol the happiness of existence. But, alas! how many mortals are truly satisfied with their mode of existence? If life has sweets, with how much bitterness is it not mixed? Does not a single chagrin often suffice suddenly to poison the most peaceable and fortunate life? Are there many, who, if it were in their power would begin again, at the same price, the painful career, in which, without their consent, destiny has placed them?

They say, that existence is a great blessing. But is not this existence continually troubled with fears, and maladies, often cruel and little deserved? May not this existence, threatened on so many sides, be torn from us any moment? Where is the man, who has not been deprived of a dear wife, beloved child, or consoling friend, whose loss every moment intrudes upon his thoughts? There are few, who have not been forced to drink of the cup of misfortune; there are few, who have not desired their end. Finally, it did not depend upon us to exist or not to exist. Should the bird then be very grateful to the fowler for taking him in his net and confining him in his cage for his diversion?