deeper and deeper into it: firmly fixed in earth, we would fain draw our whole life, strength, and nourishment from it. And here we should not only "fade as a leaf," but, with " every tree that beareth not good fruit, be hewn down and cast into the fire," did not mercy interpose.

We seldom, however, discern mercy in its first approach." Is it mercy," say you, " that tears me up by the roots? that cuts the fibres of sweetest union? Does it prune away the finest branches, nip the loveliest buds, and cover the earth with blossoms?" Yes, verily, since the very life of the whole often depends on the removal of a part, mercy will wound to heal: regard to the tree will strip off its most flourishing suckers: the great Husbandman will not fail to adopt the sharpest means for the improvement of his choicest plants: "for every branch that beareth fruit he purgeth it, that it may bring forth more fruit. Though the Lord cause grief, yet it is in compassion, and according to the multitude of his mercies: for he doth not afflict willingly, nor grieve the children of men;" but soon or late, instructs all his children to say, "I know, O Lord, that thy judgments are right, and that thou in faithfulness hast afflicted me."

_ Let not, therefore, the change of the present scene discompose, but direct us: it changes, in order to present the only unchangeable one. By thus rending the veils which men try to throw over a dying state, and discovering TEKEL (that is, "wanting," Dan. v. 27.) written on every creature, the most careless are often so roused, that they seem to awake and recover themselves: they appear, for a time at least, to become wise to understand these things, and seriously to consider their latter end. May this salutary impression, however, my dear friend, never be worn from your mind, but lead you habitually to look from this fading, to that abiding prospect, which is to be found only in the eternal world and on which it may be necessary here to drop a reflection

or two.

I think you must often have remarked, that the urgency and bustle of present things, not only raise a cloud of dust before our future prospects, but early beget a false principle that the present life is the only one. You must also have observed, that ten thousand false maxims, which daily fly through the world, take their rise from this prime falsehood. Whereas, in fact, the present life, instead of being the whole, is comparatively nothing-a stage, a porch, a dream, a weary day's journey. What is this drop to the ocean before us? What this moment to eternity? As a theatre, indeed, in which God exhibits the wonders of his providence and grace; or, as a stage, on which we are to act our parts, without any opportunity of repetition; the present state is infinitely grand and important: but surely no greater imposition can be put upon the pilgrim, than to persuade him that he is at home, or to make him forget and drown his eternal interests in such a vision of the night as life.

Do you not, my dear friend, sensibly perceive this? While you sit here, does not the cloud break and the mist subside? Have you not already so

realized a " better, that is, an heavenly country," as to admire him who pitched only a tent here, but steadfastly looked for a "city that hath foundations?" Are you not ready " to take hold of the skirt of this Jew," saying, "We will go with you, for we have heard that God is with you?"

Seeing this, you only see truths ever exhibited in the Scriptures, and living principles in all who

are

"taught of God;" for he alone can enable us to use his own discoveries: and how gracious is he, when he removes any object which might prevent our thus seeing himself, his kingdom, and his righteousness; or whose removal may prove the occasion of our seeking them!

Just before the flood, there were doubtless among them " men of renown," admired projectors; but there appears to have been but one truly wise man among them; one who saw, and seriously regarded his prospects. And he, "being warned of God of things not seen as yet, moved with fear, prepared an ark to the saving of his house." Now, such a man is the Christian. He feels "the world passing away with the lusts thereof, but that he that doeth the will of God abideth for ever."-" I feel," says he, "that however finely they dress the pageant of this world, it passeth by: to a creature like me, going, hastening, such an ark is worth more than ten thousand dying worlds. Let the gay laugh; let the despisers wonder and perish;' with such prospects before me, I must be serious. He that cannot lie, has revealed the terrors as well as the glories of a future state: he speaks of a worm

6

that dieth not, and a fire that is not quenched,' as well as of a fulness of joy, and pleasures for evermore.' I must not, I dare not, shut my eyes against these awful realities. I will not sacrifice my soul to a jest, nor miss the single opportunity afforded me for its salvation. He that calls for my whole heart is worthy of it; while the things which have hitherto engrossed it, though they cannot satisfy, I find they can ruin it. ' I will therefore arise, and go to my Father,' to my Saviour who has promised to 'cast out none that come unto him.' Yea, doubtless, ' I count all things but loss that I may be found in him,' the true Ark, the only Refuge, which God has provided for perishing sinners."

Such a man, indeed, is the Christian; but the Christian, after all, is but a man. In a state like this, he needs to be continually reminded of his own principles. Even the wise virgins slumber, though the Bridegroom is at hand. But a cry is often made in the family, before that which will at midnight awaken the world: one like that in the house of Pharaoh for his first-born, or that so lately heard in yours. A cry which, while it rouses the sleeper, fills his eyes with tears, and his heart with pangs, often produces such views of God, of the present and of the eternal state, as all other monitors would have attempted in vain.

Here, then, my afflicted, but, I hope, instructed friend, let us study the heavenly science of gaining by losses, and rising by depressions. Leaving the wilderness, like Moses, let us ascend the mount of scriptural discovery, and survey a prospect of which his was but a shadow. Let us look from vicissitude and desolation, to what alone is " incorruptible, undefiled, and fadeth not away;" and, in the house of affliction and death, let us contemplate a house "not made with hands, eternal in the heavens." How refreshing to look from a family bereft of its companions and comforts, to " Mount Sion, the city of the living God, the heavenly Jerusalem; to an innumerable company of angels; and to the general assembly, and church of the first-born, which are written in heaven!"-the only family which cannot be divided the only friendship which shall not disappoint our warmest expectations.

If se

" Glorious as this prospect is," perhaps you are ready to reply, "I have been long in the habit of viewing it very indistinctly. My attention has been so fixed on one below, that I live looking into the grave rather than beyond it. My spirits are so broken, my heart so wounded, and my eyes so dim with watching and weeping, that I can hardly read what is before me, or recollect what I read. rious reflection composes me for a few moments, I soon relapse, and seem to lose sight of every support. I indeed severely feel what you say concerning the present life; but I view the glories of the future like a starving creature, who, looking through the gate of the wealthy, surveys a plenty which but increases his anguish."

There is, however, this difference, at least, between your cases: the plenty which you see is yours, if you are really willing to accept it. You never received a gift which was so freely bestowed, or so