rarest felicity and of great delicacy and expressiveness; in which we know not whether most to admire the vigour which has con

ceived so striking a thought, or the refinement of art which has fixed it in words so beautifully exact.

INFIDELITY AND GUILT INFERRED FROM THE VIRTUES OF MEN.

FROM THE PHILOSOPHY OF UNBELIEF.

Ir you take from them the diction and metre of fashion, the thoughts and affections which are bred in worldly fancies and amusements, what do you leave them but empty vessels, mansions whose great inhabitants are kept in chains by usurpers, or presented as strung up in bones, with no heart, no flashes of wit and conscience, shadowing life and hope. They are " without God in the world;" that is, they are without that influence from him, entering into their affections, joys, plans, hopes, and shaping the conduct, which a belief of his word would impart. They are infidels, no better in condition and prospect, than those who acknowledge they are so; and if they do not know it, it is because they have not taken the trouble to be informed: they want the reflection necessary to conviction......

Sin, considered abstractly, is no evil in their view. They never think that its nature is to obstruct all faith in the word of God,-that low apprehensions of its evil nature tend directly to produce diminishing impressions of the excellency of the divine law, and of the worth of the privileges and blessings of the gospel. In short, their views make "the manifold wisdom of God" in the great plan of redemption by the sufferings and death of Christ, foolishness, a downright misconception of their condition and necessities. Entertaining these notions of sin, and affected by them in this manner, no wonder they are not troubled by it, and do not seek deliverance from it. Who will apply for grace when he feels that he has strength enough without it? Who that is whole will seek a physician? Who that is in no danger will fly to a refuge? Who can be penetrated with shame and sorrow for that which he deems no crime, or discredit to himself? Who will learn to depend on a foreign agency to live virtuously, when virtue is his boast, and considered to be his birthright? No persons are in greater danger of falling into these views of sin, and the unbelief they engender, than those to whom we have alluded. They are not, generally, addicted to distinguished iniquities,-things that expose themselves, abash pride, and endanger character. They are strict observers of decency and moderation in sinning. They are only devoted to pleasures and amusements called innocent. They are not pious to be sure, but that is no crime, not a thing to be repented of or alarmed at. Nothing is more common, say they, and we may safely and without reproach go with the multitude in one respect, if we shun their vices in others. Thus they are confident; no temptations scare them, no danger of being brought near great offences along an inclined

road of evil is apprehended, and the only wonder is, that they last so long, that they do not sooner and oftener slide, break through all restraint, and stand out as matured criminals. There is criminality in all they do, for they do nothing well; and not to do well, is to do wrong. Their great error is, that they do not see the sinfulness of sin in their forgetfulness of God; in their not rating and loving objects according to the measure of their worth and excellence. These things show that their nature has run wild from goodness,-that they are estranged from God; and to be estranged from him is the sum and essence of all sin, the very heart of infidelity,that keeper of the conscience that shuts out the entrance of truth, and cries peace, peace, when all the peace there is, is only that, when pains and fears give way to death.

If we examine the best virtues of unconverted men generally, and particularly of such as we have last described, we shall find new light on the subject. It requires no great insight into human nature, to discover the remnants of a now fallen, but once glorious, structure; and, what is most remarkable, to see that the remains of this ancient greatness are more apt to be quickened and drawn out by their semblances and qualities, found in creatures, than by the bright and full perfection of them which is in the Creator;-that the heart puts on its most benign face, and sends forth prompt returns of gratitude and love to creatures who have bestowed on us favour and displayed other amiable qualities, while He, whose goodness is so great, so complete, so pervading, that there is none besides it, is unrequited, unheeded, unseen, though hanging out his glory from the heavens, and coming down to us in streams of compassion and love, which have made an ocean on earth that is to overflow and fill it. How strange it is, that all this love, so wonderful in itself, so undeserved, so diffused, that we see it in every beauty, and taste it in every enjoyment, should be lost on creatures whose love for the gentler and worthier qualities of each other, runs so often into rapture and devotion! How strange that they should be so delighted with streams which have gathered such admixtures of earth, which cast up such "mire and dirt," and have such shallows and falls that we often wreck our hopes in them, as not to be reminded by them of the great and unmixed fountain whence they have flowed, or of the great ocean, to whose dark and unbottomed depths they will at last settle, as too earthy to rise to its pure and glorious surface! There are many mysteries in human nature, but none greater than this: for while it shows man is so much a creature of sense and so devoid of faith, that objects, to gain his attention and affection, must not only be present to him, but have something of sense and self in them, we are still left to wonder

how he could, with such manifestations of divine goodness in him, around him, and for him, have failed to see and adore them, and become so like a brute, as not to think of God, the original of all that is lovely, when thinking of those his qualities which so please and affect him in creatures; and this, though they be so soiled and defaced by sin, that his unmixed fondness for any the most agreeable of them, instead of being an accomplishment, is a sure indication of a mind sunk greatly below the standard allotted to it by the Creator.

Our wonder will be raised higher still, if we consider that our nature, when most corrupt and perverse, is not wholly lost to all sense of gratitude, but may be wrought upon by human kindness, when all the amazing compassion and love of God fail to affect it; if we consider that the very worst of men who set their faces against the heavens, affronting the mercy and defying the majesty thereof, are sometimes so softened with a sense of singular and undeserved favours, that their hearts swell with grateful sentiments towards their benefactors, and something akin to virtue is kindled up where nothing of the kind was seen before; we might think it incredible, if there was any doubting of what we see and know. When we see such men so ready to acknowledge their obligations to their fellows, and to return service for service; so impatient of being thought ungrateful, when they have any character or interest to promote by it, and sometimes, when they have not; so strongly affected with the goodness of him who has interposed between them and temporal danger or death, and yet so little moved by the love of God in Christ, which has undertaken their rescue from eternal and deserved woes, and not merely their rescue, but their exaltation to fellowship with himself, and to the pleasures for evermore at his right hand,-a love compared with which the greatest love of creatures is as a ray of light to the sun, and that ray mixed and darkened, while this is so disinterested and free in the grounds and motives of it, that it is exercised towards those who have neither merit to invite, nor disposition to receive it; when we see this, and find that this love, so worthy in itself, so incomprehensible in its degree and in the benefits it would confer, is the only love to which they make no returns of thankfulness or regard, we may ascribe as much of it as we please to the hardness and corruption of their hearts, but that will not account for such conduct. Depravity, considered by itself, will not enable us fully to understand it. Depraved, sensual, and perverse as they are, they have something in them that is kindled by human kindness, and why should it not be kindled by the greater "kindness of God our Saviour?" It is not because it is a divine kindness; not that it is less needed-not that it is bestowed in less measure, or at less expense. And if it is because they do not apprehend this kindness, do not feel their need of it, do not see any thing affecting in the measure and expense of it, this is infidelity; and it grows out of an entire misconception of their own character, and of the character and law of God. It is a total blindness to distant and invisible good and evil. It is a ven

turing of every thing most important to themselves on an uncertainty, which they would not and could not do, if they had any understanding of the value of the interests at stake. They really see nothing important but the gratifications of sense and time: still they have the remains of a capacity for something higher. These may be contemplated with profit, if not with admiration. They resemble the motions in the limbs and heart of animals, when the head is severed from the body. They are symptoms of a life that of itself must come to nothing; a life that is solely pouring itself out on the ground. But as this is all the life they have, an image of life, and that only of life in death; and as the motions of it are only excited by the creature's kindness, we discover in their best virtues, or rather, in their only breathings and indications of virtue, the evidence of a faithless heart.

Their

The different classes of people brought to our view in this chapter, generally consider themselves very innocent; some, because they are free from great vices, and others, because great vices have blinded their eyes to guilt. But it is observable that the ground of this supposed innocence is the same in all, and lies in mistaken views of the evil nature of sin, and of the gospel plan of delivering them both from its pollution and curse; so that the most virtuous one of them is as much an infidel in this as the most vicious, that he does not believe himself to be totally ruined by sin, totally destitute of any thing acceptable to a holy God, and totally dependent on him for grace to renew and fit the soul for the bliss of heaven. virtues, too, though in some more clearly manifested than in others, are in all the same as to the grounds and objects of them. They are such as love, gratitude, sympathy with the distresses, and patient endurance of the welfare, of others. We see much of these in one way and another, and sometimes very attractive examples of them. But, as has been shown, their aptest, if not their only exercise, is in view of the favours, claims, and virtues of creatures. These display acts of love, gratitude, and self-denial, strongly fastening on and ending in the creatures, while they are in no degree moved by the greater occasions and excitements of these virtues, found in the dispensations and perfections of the Creator. These very virtues, then, which are more the distinction of some than of others, yet in some way the boast of all, are, as truly as their vices, the proof of rank infidelitythat mixture of folly and estrangement which seems to say, "there is no God."

THE VICTORIES OF LOVE.

FROM THE USES OF ADVERSITY.

Love is represented as the fulfilling of the law -a creature's perfection. All other graces, all divine dispensations contribute to this, and are lost in it as in a heaven. It expels the dross of our nature; it overcomes sorrow; it is the full joy of our Lord. Let us contemplate its capacities and resources

as applied to the experience of life. Property and business may fail, and still the eye of hope may fix itself on other objects, and confidence may strengthen itself in other schemes, but when death enters into our family and loved ones are missing from our sight, though God may have made their bed in sickness, and established their hope in death, nothing can then relieve us but trust and love. Philosophy and pleasure do but intrude upon and aggravate our grief. But love, the light of God, may chase away the gloom of this hour, and start up in the soul trusts, which give the victory over ourselves. The harp of the spirit, though its cords be torn, never yields such sweet notes, such swelling harmony, as when the world can draw no music from it. How often do we see strokes fall on the heart, which it would be but mockery for man to attempt to relieve, and which yet served to unlock the treasures of that heart and reveal a sweetness to it, which it had not known before. See that mother. She loves and mourns as none but a mother can. Behold the greatness and the sweetness of her grief! Her child is dead, and she says "It is well with me, and it is well with my child. It is well because God has taken him; He has said of such is the kingdom of heaven,' that he doth not willingly afflict, and I know it must be well." Can there be any greatness greater than this? Did ever any prince at the head of invincible armies win a victory like it? Her heart is in heaviness and her home is desolated, but she has been to her heavenly Father and unbosomed her griefs before him. There is peace on her saddened countenance, peace in her gentle words, the peace of God has come down and is filling her trusting soul. How sweet and soft is her sorrow, and how it softens and awes without agitating others!

6

It is related that on a small, and rocky, and almost inaccessible island, is the residence of a poor widow. The passage of the place is exceedingly dangerous to vessels, and her cottage is called the Lighthouse," from the fact that she uniformly keeps a lamp burning in her little window at night. Early and late she may be seen trimming her lamp with oil, lest some misguided bark may perish through her neglect. For this she asks no reward. But her kindness stops not here. When any vessel is wrecked, she rests not till the chilled mariners come ashore to share her little board, and be warmed by her glowing fire. This poor woman in her younger, perhaps not happier days, though happy they must have been, for sorrow cannot lodge in such a heart, witnessed her husband struggling with the waves and swallowed up by the remorseless billows,

"In sight of home and friends who thronged to save." This directed her benevolence towards those who orave the dangers of the deep; this prompted her present devoted and solitary life, in which her only, her sufficient enjoyment is in doing good. Sweet and blessed fruit of bereavement! What beauty is here! a loveliness I would little speak of, but more revere! a flower crushed indeed, yet sending forth its fragrance to all around! Truly, as the sun seems greatest in his lowest estate, so did sorrow enlarge

her heart and make her appear the more noble, the lower it brought her down. We cannot think she was unhappy, though there was a remembered grief in her heart. A grieved heart may be a richly stored one. Where charity abounds, misery cannot. "Such are the tender woes of love, Fostring the heart, they bend."

A pious lady who had lost her husband, was for a time inconsolable. She could not think, scarcely could she speak of any thing but him. Nothing seemed to take her attention but the three promising children he had left her, imaging to her his presence, his look, his love. But soon these were all taken ill and died within a few days of each other, and now the childless mother was calmed even by the greatness of the stroke. The hand of God was thus made visible to her. She could see nothing but his work in the dispensation. Thus was the passion of her grief allayed. Her indisposition to speak of her loss, her solemn repose, was the admiration of all beholders. The Lord had not slain her; he had slain what to some mothers is more than life, that in which the sweets of life were treasured up, that which she would give life to redeem, and yet could she say, "I will trust in Him." As the lead that goes quickly down to the ocean's depth, ruffles its surface less than lighter things, so the blow which was strongest, did not so much disturb her calm of mind, but drove her to its proper

trust.

We had a friend loved and lovely. He had genius and learning. He had all qualities, great and small, blending in a most attractive whole-a character as much to be loved as admired, as truly gentle as it was great, and so combining opposite excellencies that each was beautified by the other. Between him and her who survives him there was a reciprocity of taste and sympathy-a living in each other, so that her thoughts seemed but the pictures of his-her mind but a glass that showed the very beauty that looked into it, or rather became itself that beauty. Dying in his dying, she did not all die. Her love, the heart's animation, lifted her up; her sense of loss was merged for a while in her love and confidence of his good estate. In strong and trusting thoughts of him as a happy spirit, and of God as his and her portion, she rested as in a cloud. A falling from this elevation, was truly a coming to one's self from God—a leaving of heaven for earth. Let her tell the rest in words as beautiful as they are true to nature. "My desolating loss I realize more and more. For many weeks his peaceful and triumphant departure left such an elevating influence on my mind. that I could only think of him as a pure and happy spirit. But now my feelings have become more selfish, and I long for the period to arrive, when I may lie down by his side and be reunited in a nobler and more enduring union than even that which was ours here."

Thus does the mind, when it ceases to look upward, fall from its elevation. Thus is the low note of sadness heard running through all the music of life, when ourselves are the instruments we play upon. The sorrow that deepens not love, and runs not off with it, must ever flood the spirit and bear

it down. Our best and sweetest life, that which we live in the good of others, is richly stocked with charities. The life which we live in ourselves, that which depends on our stores, is master only of chaff and smoke, when they are taken away, and destitute of that last relieving accommodation, a resigned spirit. The young man whom Jesus told to sell all his goods and give to the poor, and he should have treasure in heaven, should be truly enriched was sad at that saying." He understood not the riches of love, which never feels itself so wealthy as when it has expended all in obedience to the commands it honours; never so well furnished against want and sorrow, as when best assured of the approbation of its object. In that we are creatures, we see how poor we must be, having nothing laid up in the Creator. Selfishness is poverty; it is the most utter destitution of a human being. It can bring nothing to his relief; it adds soreness to his sorrows; it sharpens his pains; it aggravates all the losses he is liable to endure, and when goaded to extremes, often turns destroyer and strikes its last blows on himself. It gives us nothing to rest in or to fly to, in trouble; it turns our affections on ourselves, self on self, as the sap of a tree descending out of season from its heavenward branches, and making not only its life useless, but its growth downward.

If there is any thing about us which good hearts will reverence, it is our grief on the loss of those we love. It is a condition in which we seem to be smitten by a Divine hand, and thus made sacred. It is a grief, too, which greatly enriches the heart, when rightly borne. There may be no rebellion of the will, the sweetest sentiments towards God and our fellow beings may be deepened, and still the desolation caused in the treasured sympathies and hopes of the heart gives a new colour to the entire scene of life. The dear affections which grew out of the consanguinities and connections of life, next to those we owe to God, are the most sacred of our being; and if the hopes and revelations of a future state did not come to our aid, our grief would be immoderate and inconsolable, when these relations are broken by death.

But we are not left to sorrow in darkness. Death is as the foreshadowing of life. We die that we may die no more. So short too is our life here, a mortal life at best, and so endless is the life on which we enter at death, an immortal life, that the consideration may well moderate our sorrow at parting. All who live must be separated by the great appointment, and if the change is their gain, we poorly commend our love to them, more poorly our love to Christ, who came to redeem them and us, for the end of taking us to his rest, if we refuse to be comforted. Yes, it is selfish to dwell on our griefs, as though some strange thing had happened to us, as though they were too important to be relieved, or it were a virtue to sink under them. I would revere all grief of this kind, yet I would say there is such a thing as a will of cherishing it, which makes it rather killing than improving in its effect. This may be done under a conceit of duty or gratitude to the dead. It may be done as

a sacrifice to what we deem is expected of us, or as a thing becoming in the eyes of others. But that bereavement seems rather sanctified which saddens not the heart over much, and softens without withering it; which refuses no comfort or improvement we can profitably receive, and imposes no restraints on the rising hopes of the heart; which, in short, gives way and is lost in an overgrowth of kind and grateful affections.

OUR ONLY SATISFYING PORTION.

FROM THE PORTION OF THE SOUL.

We have generous and noble emotions, we are capable of a devotion to one of our kind that makes us forget all that is due to ourselves, and exacts nothing but the reception of its gifts and honours, and yet all this treasure, more than we are, and more far than we can call our own or have a right to bestow, may be treated as a trifle; the perishable work of our hands may be more prized than the purest, the largest devisings of the heart; yea, what we are, and more than we can ever be in affection, may be rejected and despised as less than nothing; but let one such aspiring thought go out after God, and he will fly to meet it as of more value than all treasures. He will call in angels to rejoice over it, will reward it with what, yea more than, it intends towards him, and give it a place in his bosom. Our best aims towards him can never fail of their end; towards all other objects they must fall short of it, if not entirely yet partially, for their incapacity to impart that happiness which our devotion would expect as well as confer. No creature can reward so great a capacity as that we have; and the suffering it may cause us may equal in degree the happiness it craves. There are wrongs and losses, of which our nature is capable, which disqualify the mind and heart for their proper place and influence, and cast a gloom upon every prospect, and which we should be quite unable to bear, if we were obliged to estimate them as annihilations, or suspensions of the proper and rightful interests of our being. The smallest injury of this description could never occur in a just government, without an equivalent provided somewhere, and to be realized, we may not know in what manner. The view, however, that has been taken of this subject, promises not merely an equivalent, but a gain, and this, though it cannot take away pain, endows submission with reason, and relieves our darkness with the sun-light of hope.

THOUGHTS.

SELF-LOVE is the parent of presumption. We are never so bad or so old but self-love may keep us in favour with ourselves.

Vanity is a refined selfishness, which is ever exacting homage, but never paying any.

If a vain person flatter you, it is to try his power on you, and you must be made his tool, or he your enemy.