above all things, if thou art poor, beware that thou lose not thine independence. Cast not thyself, a creature poorer than poor, an indolent, helpless, despised beggar, on the kindness of others. Choose to have God for thy master, rather than man. Escape not from his school, either by dishonesty or almstaking, lest thou fall into that state worse than disgrace, where thou shalt have no respect for thysel Thou mayest come out of that school; yet beware that thou come not out as a truant, but as a noble scholar. The world itself doth not ask of the candidates for its honours, whether they studied in a palace or a cottage, but what they have acquired, and what they are; and heaven, let us again be assured, will ask no inferior title to its glories and rewards.

Again, the entire social condition of humanity is a school. The ties of society affectingly teach us to love one another. A parent, a child, a husband, or wife, or associate, without love, is nothing but a cold marble image-or rather a machine, an annoyance, a something in the way to vex and pain us. The social relations not only teach love, but demand it. Show me a society, no matter how intelligent, accomplished, and refined, but where love is not, where there is ambition, jealousy, and distrust-not simplicity, confidence, and kindness; and you show me an unhappy society. All will complain of it. Its punctilious decorum, its polished insincerity, its "threatening urbanity," gives no satisfaction to any of its members. What is the difficulty? What does it want? I answer, it wants love: and if it will not have that, it must suffer, and it ought to suffer.

But the social state also powerfully teaches modesty and meekness. All cannot be great; and nobody may reasonably expect all the world to be engaged with lauding his merits. All cannot be great; and we have happily fallen upon times when none can be distinguished as a few have been in the days of semi-barbarous ignorance. All cannot be great; for then nobody were. The mighty mass of human claims presses down all individual ambition. Were it not so, it were not easy to see where that ambition would stop. Well that it be schooled to reason; and society, without knowing it, is an efficient master for that end. Is any one vexed and sore under neglect? Does he walk through the street unmarked, and say that he deserves to be saluted oftener and with more respect? Does the pang of envy shoot through his heart, when notice is bestowed on others whom he thinks less worthy than he is? Perhaps society is unjust to him. What then? What shall he do? What can he do, but learn humility, and patience, and quietness? Perhaps the lesson is roughly and unkindly given. Then must society, through its very imperfection, teach us to be superior to its opinion; and our care must be, not to be cynical and bitter, but gentle, candid, and affectionate still.

Society is doubtless often right in its neglect or its condemnation; but certainly it is sometimes wrong. It seems to be the lot, the chance, the fortune, the accident, of some, to be known, admired, and celebrated. Adulation and praise are poured out at their feet while they live, and upon their tomb when they die. But thousands of others, intrinsically just as interesting, with sentiments that mount as high on earth, and will flourish as fair in heaven, live unpraised and die unknown. Nay, and the very delicacy of some minds forbids their being generally known and appreciated. Tact, facility, readiness, conversation, personal recommendations, manners, and connexions, help on some; and all these may be wanting to minds that have none the less worth and beauty. Who then would garner up his heart in the opinion of this world? Yet neither let us hate it; but let its imperfection minister to our perfection.

There are also broken ties; and sometimes the holiest ties wear themselves out; like imperfect things, alas! as they are. What, then, is to be learnt? I answer, a great lesson. What is to be done? A great duty. To be just; to be true; to cherish a divine candour; to make the best of that which seems not well; to pour not vinegar upon the galling chain, but the oil of gentleness and forbearance. So shall many a wound be healed; and hearts shall be knit together in a better bond than that of hasty impulse-the bond of mutual improvement, strengthening mutual love.

But not to insist more at large upon the disciplinary character of all the conditions of life and society, let us consider, for a moment further, some of its events and ordinances.

Amidst all the gaiety and splendour of life there is a dark spot; over its brightest career there comes a sudden and overshadowing cloud; in the midst of of its loud and restless activity there is a deep pause and an awful silence; - what a lesson is death!-death that stops the warm current and the vital breath, and freezes mortal hearts in fear and wonder; death that quells all human power, and quenches all human pride; death, "the dread teacher," the awful admonisher, that tells man of this life's frailty, and of a judgment to come. What a lesson is death! Stern, cold, inexorable, irresistible-the collected might of the world cannot stay it, or ward it off; the breath that is parting from the lips of king, or beggar-the breath that scarcely stirs the hushed air-that little breath-the wealth of empires cannot buy it, or bring it back for a moment. What a lesson is this to proclaim our own frailty, and a power beyond us! It is a fearful lesson; it is never familiar. That which lays its hand upon all, walks through the earth, as a dread mystery. Its mandate falls upon the ear in as fearful accents now, as when it said to the first man, "Thou shalt die! dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return." It is a universal lesson. It is read everywhere. Its message comes every year, every day. The years past are filled with its sad and solemn mementos; and could a prophet now stand in the midst of us and announce the future, to more than one of us would he say, "Set thy house in order; for this year thou shalt die." Yes, death is a teacher. I have seen upon the wall of our schoolrooms, the diagram that sets forth some humble theorem; but what a hand-writing is traced by the finger of death upon the walls of every human habitation! And what does it teach? Duty; to act our part well; to fulfil the work assigned us. Other questions, questions of pride, and ambition, and pleasure, may press themselves upon a man's life; but when he is dying-when he is dead, there is but one question --but one question has he lived well? I have seen an old man upon his bier; and I said, "Hath he done the work of many years faithfully? hath he come to his end like a shock of corn fully ripe? Then all is well. There is no evil in death, but what life makes." I have seen one fall amidst life's cares, manly or matronly, and when the end came not like a catastrophe-not as unlooked for-when it came as that

which had been much thought upon and always prepared for; when I saw the head meekly bowed to the visitation, or the eye raised in calm bright hope to heaven, or when the confidence of long intimate friendship knows that it would be raised there though the kind veil of delirium be spread over it-I said, "The work is done, the victory is gained; thanks be to God who giveth that victory through our Lord Jesus Christ." I have seen an infant form, sweetly reposing on its last couch, as if death had lost all its terrors, and had become as one of the cherubim of heaven; and I said, "Ah! how many live so, that they will yet wish that they had died with that innocent child!"

Among our Christian ordinances, brethren, there is one that celebrates the victory over death; and there is one that is appropriate to the beginning of life. They are both teachers. Baptismal waters, the emblems of a purity received from God, and to be watched over for God; the consecration unto obedience to the great truths of Christianity -to the doctrine of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Ghostthese teach us, parents, of a charge to be solemnly kept, of duties to be faithfully rendered. The sacramental table-what is it but an altar, set up amidst the realm of death, to the hope of everlasting life? To keep us in mind of him, who conquered death, and brought life and immortality to light, who gave his life a ransom for many, who became a curse for us that we might be redeemed from the curse of sin, who died that we might live for ever-lo! these symbols that are set forth from time to time in the house of God, in the school of Christ! Touching memorials of pain, and sorrow, and patient endurance! Blessed omens, on God's altar, of peace, and forgiveness, and glorious victory!

Such, my friends, are some of the lessons of the school of life. Indulge me in one or two observations on the general character of this school, and I shall have completed my present design.

Life is a finely attempered, and, at the same time, a very trying

school.

It is finely attempered; that is, it is carefully adjusted, in all its arrangements and tasks, to man's powers and nd passions. There is no extravagance in its teachings; nothing is done for the sake of present effect. It excites man, but it does not excite him too much. Indeed, so carefully adjusted are all things to this raging love of excitement, so admirably fitted to hold this passion in check, and to attemper all things to what man can bear, that I cannot help seeing in this feature of life, intrinsic and wonderful evidence of a wise and overruling Order. Men often complain that life is dull, tame, and drudging. But how unwisely were it arranged, if it were all one gala-day of enjoyment or transport! And when men make their own schools of too much excitement, their parties, controversies, associations, and enterprises, how soon do the heavy realities of life fasten upon the chariot-wheels of success when they are ready to take fire, and hold them back to a moderated

movement!

Everything, I say, is tempered in the system of things to which we belong. The human passions, and the correspondent powers of impression which man possesses, are all kept within certain limits. I think sometimes of angel forms on earth; of a gracefulness and beauty more than mortal; of a flash or a glance of the eye in the eloquent

man that should rend and inflame a thousand hearts, as lightning does the gnarled oak; but do we not see that for the sensitive frame of man excitement enough is already provided; that the moderated tone of things is all man's ear could bear; the softened and shaded hue enough for his eye; the expressions of countenance and gesture, such as they are, enough for his heart? Nay, how often is the excitement of thought and feeling so great, that, but for the interruptions of humble cares and trifles -the interpositions of a wise providence-the mind and frame would sink under them entirely! It would seem delightful, no doubt, in the pilgrimage of life, to walk through unending galleries of paintings and statues; but human life is not such; it is a school.

It is a trying school. It is a school, very trying to faith, to endurance, and to endeavour. There are mysteries in it. As, to the pupil in a human school, there are lessons of which it does not understand the full intent and bearing, as he is obliged to take some things on trust; so it is in the great school of providence. There are hard lessons to be got in this school. As the pupil is often obliged to bend all his faculties to the task before him, and tears sometimes fall on the page he is studying, so it is in the school of God's providence; there are hard lessons in it.

In short, the whole course of human life is a conflict with difficulties, and, if rightly conducted, a progress in improvement. In both these respects, man holds a position peculiar and distinct from that of the animal races. They are not at school. They never improve. With them, too, all is facility; while with man, comparatively, all is difficulty. Look at the ant-hill, or the hive of bees. See how the tenant of the one is provided with feet, so constructed that he can run all over his house, outside and inside-no heavy and toilsome steps required to go upward or downward; and how the wings of the other enable him to fly through the air, and achieve the journey of days in an hour. Man's steps compared with these are the steps of toilsome endeavour.

Why is this so? Why is man clothed with this cumbrous mass of flesh? Because it is a more perfect instrument for the mind's culture, though that end is to be wrought out with difficulty. Why are his steps slow and toilsome? Because they are the steps of improvement. Why is he at school? That he may learn. Why is the lesson hard? That he may rise high on the scale of advancement.

Nor is it ever too late for him to learn. This is a distinct consideration; but let me dwell a moment upon it in close. Nor, I say, is it ever too late for man to learn. If any man thinks that his time has gone by, let me take leave to contradict that dangerous assumption. Life is a school; the whole of life. There never comes a time, even amidst the decays of age, when it is fit to lay aside the eagerness of acquisition, or the cheerfulness of endeavour. I protest utterly against the common idea of growing old. I hold that it is an unchristian, a heathen idea. It may befit those who expect to lay down and end their being in the grave, but not those who look upon the grave as the birthplace of immortality. I look for old age as, saving its infirmities, a cheerful and happy time. I think that the affections are often full as warm then as they ever are. Well may the affections of piety be so! They are approaching near to the rest that remaineth; they almost grasp the prize that shall crown them; they are ready to say, with aged Simeon, "Now let thy servant depart." The battle is almost fought; the victory is near at hand. "Why," - does any one still ask-" why does the battle press hard to the very end? Why is it ordained for man that he shall walk, all through the course of life, in patience and strife, and sometimes in darkness?" Because from patience is to come perfection. Because from strife is to come triumph. Because from the dark cloud is to come the lightning-flash, that opens the way to eternity!

Christian! hast thou been faithful in the school of life? Art thou faithful to all its lessons? Or hast thou, negligent man! been placed in this great school, only to learn nothing, and hast not cared whether thou didst learn or not? Have the years passed over thee only to witness thy sloth and indifference? Hast thou been zealous to acquire everything but virtue, but the favour of thy God?

But art thou faithful, Christian? God help thee to be yet more so in years to come. And remember, for thine encouragement, what is written: "These things saith the first and the last, who was dead and is alive; I know thy works, and tribulation, and poverty (but thou art rich); fear none of those things which thou shalt suffer; be faithful unto death, and I will give thee a crown of life."