This plain lesson is one of the most difficult to be learned by us. We are, indeed, ready enough to acknowledge it to be true; but our acknowledgment, in most instances, comes from our lips only, and not from our hearts. This is unanswerably proved by our daily conduct. When we lose one enjoyment we betake ourselves to another; and, when disappointed of the expected happiness in one case, we turn speedily to another; proving by all which we do, our belief, that there is real and sufficient good to be found somewhere, although we have hitherto missed it in our search. Earth still is the darling object. The old man shows this equally with the youth, and grasps his bags and his offices as eagerly as the youth his pleasures and his fame. Even the Christian is but partly iron, the remainder of his composition is still clay. Firm at times, he is frail and crumbling at other times. He often lets go his hold on heaven, and clings closely to earth.

The vanity of all this conduct, and of the things which prompt it, nothing teaches so effectually as affliction. He who has lost his wealth is more ready than ever before to feel that riches take to themselves wings and fly away. He who has lost his popularity, power, and fame, is more willing than before to confess, and to believe, that it is unwise to put trust in princes, or in the sons of men, in whom there is neither faithfulness nor help. He who has lost his beloved friends, and the children who were bone of his bone, and flesh of his flesh, learns, perhaps for the first time, that the very life on which the continuance of these most dear enjoyments depended is but a vapour which appeareth for a little time, and then vanisheth away. He who has been deprived of his health becomes easily convinced that himself is but dust, crushed before the moth, and born to trouble as naturally as the sparks fly upward.

Thus we discern by the loss of enjoyments, that the things enjoyed are frail, perishing, and utterly unfitted to be the firm grounds of confidence to an immortal mind, the objects on which it can safely and permanently rest, the sources whence it can derive the happiness which it needs.

At times, all these truths are strongly impressed by a sin

gle affliction. Especially is this the case, when the affliction is very great, sudden, and unexpected, or when it befalls á mind peculiarly tender and susceptible, or when it comes in an hour of uncommon feeling and solemnity. But more usually is it the result of successive chastisements to such gross, hard, forgetful, sluggish, hearts as ours. When we see one blessing taken away after another, we naturally begin to realize that it is not a world of enjoyment, but a vale of tears, that God did not destine us here to the happiness for which we were made, and for which we feel irresistible desires, and a boundless capacity. Thus are we taught in that which is the only effectual mode of instruction, this indispensable and most profitable lesson; and thus do we become finally convinced that we are here mere probationers for another and better country, and have in this world no abiding place. Hence we are led to feel as pilgrims and strangers on the earth, and to seek for our permanent residence a city which hath foundations, whose builder and maker is God.

On this great lesson is grafted, inseparably, another which is kindred to it, the folly of our attachment to this world.

If the world be thus vain, we cannot but discern the folly of placing our affections inordinately upon it. That which is of little worth deserves little of our attention or attachment. That which is fleeting and uncertain, however valuable otherwise, must be of little worth, and that which is of little value in itself, and is also transient and precarious, is scarcely of any worth at all. None but a fool or a madman, can highly prize the most beautiful and splendid bubble, which, though adorn ed with hues of enchantment, dissolves at a touch, and is changed in a moment into a mere drop of impure water.

Intimately connected with this truth is another of the same useful nature, the equal, or rather the enhanced folly of our anxieties and labours, to gain and secure so poor an inheritance in such a world. Think not that I object to an indus trious pursuit of the things of this world. Industry in our respective callings is the duty of us all. But industry, to be lawful, or useful, must be pursued as a duty, and not as an indulgence or instrument of avarice, ambition, or sensuality.

We must be industrious solely because God has commanded it, because good will result from it, and because idleness will ruin us both in soul and body, and not because industry will make us rich, great, or possessed of sensual enjoyment. Love not the world, neither the things that are in the world: if any man love the world, the love of the Father is not in him.

The usual method, in which men are industrious, is a mere obedience to the lust of the flesh, the lust of the eyes, and the pride of life. This world is to most men the ultimate object. Instead of labouring that they may serve God, obey his com, mands, and become benefactors to those around them, they labour, solely, to gain an inheritance here, confine all their cares and anxieties to this side of the grave, and think nothing of God, duty, or eternal life. Thus they are without God in this world, and without hope in the next.

The first great check which this worldly, wretched, spirit finds, is a conviction, usually produced by mere suffering, that the world itself is a poor, miserable, perishing, possession, in which the good they seek can never be found. With this conviction, they easily learn that they labour for that which is not meat, and spend their strength for that which satisfieth not; that they have, during all their preceding life, been feeding on wind, and snuffing up the east wind.

Hence they, also, naturally learn not to set their affections on things below, however delightful, and however endeared, Property, power, fame, pleasure, friends, children, parents, husbands, wives, health, and life itself, begin to lose their false value and deceitful charms. The world universally begins to wear a new and juster appearance. Instead of the paradise, which it was originally believed to be, fraught with every thing good for food, beautiful to the eye, and pleasant to the taste, it is now discerned to be a mere wilderness, dry and thirsty, barren of real good, perplexed with thorns and briers, and furnishing to the longing soul no springs of life, no refuge, no home.

Secondly, Afflictions teach us that our life as well as our enjoyments is frail, uncertain, and momentary.

It may seem strange for me to suppose, that any man needs

to be taught this truth, after being taught it by every thing which passes before his eyes, and by the testimony of God, and of all his fellow-creatures. I do not, indeed, suppose any man ignorant of it, or even doubtful concerning the proposition, as generally stated. Still, I believe, few men realize this truth, obvious as it is, with regard to themselves. That they may die, all will acknowledge. Most feel, perhaps, in some degree or other, that at some distant period, they must die. But few, I suspect, feel that death is near, and life uncertain, or even short. To most, if we may trust the testimony of our eyes or ears, a long life appears highly probable, if not absolutely secure, Most of the young promise themselves old age; and most of the aged, one or several years to come. a few instances, solitary and transient, it is probable, that all men may believe death near, and life precarious; but in the usual current of thought, they feel secure of future days, and of many such days.

In

It would also seem, that no reasoning has sufficient power to change this state of the mind, at least none which is actually employed. We hear arguments, allow their force, and then think, and feel, and act, just as if they had never been alleged.

But what arguments cannot do, afflictions can. The sickness of ourselves, when brought to the borders of the grave, or the death of our friends, companions and children, beloved of us, and necessary to our happiness, is a hand-writing on the wall to the stupid, worldly mind; and presents before us in solemn, awful, and irresistible language, "Thou art number"ed and finished." We now begin to feel, as well as to know; and, for a short time at least, and in the moment of serious pondering, we discern death really at the door, and behold the grave opening to receive us to its lonely and desolate mansions. This is the teaching of which I speak, and which afflictions almost alone give. Our former convictions had no practical influence. Our present instructions are of higher power, and happier efficacy. From them often springs a change of our thoughts, our affections and our conduct. Our belief becomes practical, and often produces a lasting and saving influence on our lives;

and, like David, we find it good for us to have been afflicted.

3dly, Afflictions teach us, that our probation is equally transient.

Few of those who believe the Scriptures at all, fail to believe, generally and loosely, that life is a day of probation, on which all their future being depends. By afflicted persons life begins seriously to be thought to be such a day, when their afflictions begin. In consequence of this new thought, a new train of thinking follows. All the work of salvation now first appears to them to be future, and yet to be begun. They discern and feel, that it must, if ever done, be done on this side of the grave. Now they see God reconcilable to them. Now they hear the Saviour invite them to lay hold on eternal life. Now the Spirit and the Bride say, come; and let him that heareth say come; and let him that is athirst come; and whosoever will, let him take of the water of life freely. Now the word of life is in their hands. But in the grave, whither they go, there is no work, nor device, nor knowledge, nor wisdom.

Life, therefore, begins now to seem to them of infinite value. In life, if ever, the soul is to be saved. If neglected now, it will be neglected for ever. Short and uncertain as the period is, it is the only period in which salvation is to be secured.

To the mind, in such a state, will naturally recur the thought, How much of life it has already, lost. Salvation is not already secured by those of whom I especially speak. Of course, all the preceding part of life has been wasted by them. This may be almost the whole of life, and must be much of it,—infinitely too much to have been thus lost and squandered, to have been given to the world, the flesh, and the devil, to sense and sin, to guilt and perdition.

To such a mind will naturally rise up, in solemn and dreadful remembrance, the numerous Sabbaths which it has lost, profaned, and abused; the ordinances which it has neglected and despised; the calls of mercy to which it has turned a deaf ear, and a hard heart; the prayers and praises, in which it has steadily refused to unite; and the sermons which it has neglected and trampled under foot.