For Tie Cecil Whig.
MUTkBILITY.
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Every thing within the bounds OF our
observation is subject to the dominion Of
endless change. The heavenly bodies
are continually assuming new appear
ances and new positions with respect to
each other. New comets suddenly arrive
from some far-of quarter Of the universe,
blaze for time with redoubled brilliancy
and as suddenly disappear amidst the il
liniable fields of ether.


H.lr glides after hour and day after
dly, and season presses upon season.


Spring steps forth in her beauty, and
the woods and fields are brig ht with their
accustomed green, and festooned with
garlands of flowers. Yet this is not the
spring of the departed year. These are
not the same blossoms, nor this, the same
beautiful verdure, these are not the same
siIken and fragrant leaves.


Thy lie decaying by the streams, in
the hoiows and by-paths of the dim
woods.


They crumble beneath our feet as we
stray and wonder that scene so glorious
could, in few days, grow out ofone so
desolate. Vapors arise out of the ocean
and rush towards the mountains, and fall
ing, again find their way in torrents to
the sea. The fluid which arises from the
roots ftrees insinuates itself amidst the
thousand intricate wndings of the trunk,
and lends its PARTICLES to the formation
and perfection ofits organs Again it as
slmes the form of fluid, and those par
ticles which helped to bind the massive
limbs of the oak, or assisted to give color
and symmetry to the petals ofthe magno-
LA and lily, float in the mists ofthe river,
glitter in the pearl, sor flow in the veins
OF an immortal beng.


We are not the creatures to day that
we were yesterday. Each hour robs us
of a part of that ''individual being which
(wc possessed the preceding hour,
insensibly filling up the void with
rther parts, which) are in turn to
be yielded to those which shall sue
ceed them. We are born, we pass
the successive stages of infancy,
youth and manhood, we experience our
portion of the Joys and sorrows, the sue
cesses and disappointments of life. Sud-
denly we are missed from amongst our
fellows, we are not found in our accus-
toned places; and our voices are silent
forever.


But if Mutability is the lot of individ-
uals and things, no less is it the fate of
nations and Kingdoms. There m"s a
Rome at whose name the nations trembled.
There was an Egyptian, Baby ylonian,
an Assyrlan, Persian Empire, whose
names have been hlotted from the roll OF
nations. Their colonies dotted the shores
and islands OF the Mediterranean; the
shout of their warriors and the sound OF
their merchandise aroused the wild Can
tabrian from the chase-he gazed upon
the strangers and wondered. They trat-
ficked with the dwellers of the Rhone,
the Tagus and the Thames in gems and
embroidery, they spread before them the
gold of Arabia and Ophir, the purple Of
/ Tyre, and the gorgeous productions OF
Persia and India.


1fthev had not the art of printing,
they posses ssed the art of embalminy their
dead. If they had not the compass to
guide them in their ocean wanderings
their statues were inimitahle in size and
beauty. If the tun ult Of their battles was
unattended with the roar of artillery.
those mixtures which gave life and i'm
mortal color to their paintings are lost to
us. Now they are past away.


Their history is borne down through
the "long train of ages" like the shadow
of something unreal. Go and stand
amidst the mouldering ruins Of their an
cient cities and listen to the voice of the
wind as it steals through the crevlces OF
their falling towers. There was the tenn
pie of Apollo and Minerva and Jupiter;
there the smoke of the censer ascended to
Moloch and Dagon, and within these
walls now covered with the mould of ages
the priests of Isis, Osiris and Scraps.
ioined in their mystic rites.


Seated upon broken pedestal, encir-
cled with ivy and worn by the falling
rains, picture to yourselfa populous city
with its myriads of busy inhabitants, each
bent upon hisfavorite employment. Fan
cy that you hear the rattle of wheels, the
voice Of command, the confusion of as