a great evil; but this is not a common lot, and it still more rarely occurs in this country without faults or vices, which should forbid all complaint. Neither shall it here be urged, on the other hand, that riches are acquired with many labours, and kept with many cares and anxieties; for so also it may be said, and truly said, has poverty its toils and anxieties. The true answer to all difficulties on this subject seems to be, that a man's life consisteth not in the abundance of things which he possesseth. The answer, in short, may be reduced to a plain matter of fact. There is about as much cheerfulness among the poor, as among the rich. And I suspect about as much contentment too. For we might add, that a man's life, if it consist at all in his possessions, does not consist in what he possesses, but in what he thinks himself to possess. Wealth is a comparative term. The desire of property grows, and at the same time the estimate of it lessens, with its accumulation. And thus it may come to pass, that he who possesses thousands may less feel himself to be rich, and to all substantial purposes may actually be less rich, than he who enjoys a sufficiency.

But, not to urge this point, we say that a man's life does not consist in these things. Happiness, enjoyment, the buoyant spirits of life, the joys of humanity, do not consist in them. They do not depend on this distinction of being poor or rich. As it is with the earth-that there are living springs within it, which will burst forth somewhere, and that they are often most clear and healthful in the most sterile and rugged spots-so it is with the human heart. There are fountains of gladness in it; and why should they not revive the weary? Why should they not cool the brow of labour, and the lips that are parched with toil? Why should they not refresh the poor man? Nay, but they do; and they refresh him the more, because he is poor and weary. Man may hew out to himself cisterns-and how often are they broken cisterns!which are scrupulously and proudly guarded from his poorer fellowman; but the great fountains which God has opened are for all. This and that man may endeavour to appropriate them to himself: he may guide them to his reservoir; he may cause them to gush forth in artificial fountains, and to fall in artificial showers in his gardens; but it is artificial still: and one draught of the pure well-spring of honest, homely happiness, is better than them all; and the shower which heaven sends, falls upon the rich and the poor, upon the high and the low alike, and, with still more impartial favour, descends upon the good and the evil, upon the just and the unjust.

III. This impartiality will be still more manifest if we reflect, in the third place, that far the greatest and most numerous of the divine favours are granted to all, without any discrimination.

Look, in the first place, at the natural gifts of Providence. The beauty of the earth; the glories of the sky; the vision of the sun and the stars; the beneficent laws of universal being; the frame of society and of government; protecting justice and almighty providence-whose are these? What power of appropriation can say of any one of these, "This is mine, and not another's"? And what one of these would you part with for the wealth of the Indies, or all the splendours of rank or office? Again, your eyesight-that regal glance that commands, in one act, the out-spread and all-surrounding beauty of the fair universe -would you exchange it for a sceptre or a crown? And the ear-that

gathers unto its hidden chambers all music and gladness-would you give it for a kingdom? And that wonderful gift, speech-that breathes its mysterious accents into the listening soul of thy friend; that sends forth its viewless messages through the still air, and imprints them at once upon the ears of thousands-would you barter that gift for the renown of Plato or of Milton?

No, there are unappropriated blessings-blessings which none can appropriate-in every element of nature, in every region of existence, in every inspiration of life, which are infinitely better than all that can be hoarded in treasure, or borne on the breath of fame. All, of which any human being can say, "it is mine," is a toy, is a trifle, compared with what God has provided for the great family of his children! Is he poor to whom the great storehouse of nature is opened? or does he think himself poor because it is God who has made him rich? Does he complain that he cannot have a magnificent palace to dwell in, who dwells in this splendid theatre of the universe?-that he cannot behold swelling domes and painted walls, who beholds the "dread magnificence of heaven," and the pictured earth and sky? Do you regret the want of attendants, of a train of servants, to anticipate every wish, and bring every comfort at your bidding? Yet how small a thing is it to be waited on, compared with the privilege of being yourself active-compared with the vigour of health, and the free use of your limbs and senses! Is it a hardship that your table does not groan with luxuries? But how much better than all luxury is simple appetite!

The very circumstances which gain for the distinctions of life such an undue and delusive estimation, are such as ought to make us cautious about the estimate we put upon them. They are distinctions and therefore likely to be overrated; but is that a good and sound reason why we should affix to them an undue importance? Are the palaces of kings to be regarded with more interest than the humbler roofs that shelter millions of human beings? What more is the marriage of a queen-to the individual mind-though surrounded with the splendour and state of a kingdom; though accompanied with shining troops, and announced by roaring cannon-what more is it than that marriage of hearts that is every day consummated beneath a thousand lowly roofs? The distinctions of life, too, are mostly factitious, the work of art, and man's device. They are man's gifts, rather than God's gifts; and for that reason I would esteem them less. They are fluctuating also, and therefore attract notice, but on that account, too, are less valuable. They are palpable to the senses, attended with noise and show, and therefore likely to be over-estimated; while those vast benefits which all share, and which are always the same, which come in the ordinary course of things, which do not disturb the ordinary and even tenour of life, pass by unheeded. The resounding chariot, as it rolls on with princely state and magnificence, is gazed upon with admiration, and perhaps with envy. But morning comes forth in the east, and from his glorious chariot-wheels scatters light over the heavens, and spreads life and beauty through the world: morning after morning comes, and noontide sets its throne in the southern sky, and the day finishes its splendid revolution in heaven, without exciting, perhaps, a comment or a reflection. The pageant of fashion passes, and has the notice of many an eye, perhaps, to which it is all in vain that the

seasons pass by in their glory; that nature arrays herself in robes of light and beauty, and fills the earth with her train. To want what another possesses, to be outstripped in the race of honour or gain, to lose some of the nominal treasures of life, may be enough with some of us, to disturb and irritate us altogether; and such an one shall think little of it that he has life itself, and that he enjoys it; it shall be nothing to him that he has quiet sleep in the night season, and that all the bounties of the day are spread before him; that he has friends and domestic joys, and the living fountain of cheerful spirits and affectionate pleasures within him.

Nor must we stop here in our estimate.

There is an infinite sum

of blessings which have not yet been included in the account; and these, like all the richest gifts of heaven, are open and free to all; I mean the gifts, the virtues, the blessings of religion.

It has already, indeed, sufficiently appeared, not only that the inequalities in the allotments of Providence are attended with a system of compensations and drawbacks, which make them far less than they seem; and also, on account of the vast blessings which are diffused everywhere and dispensed to all; that inequality, instead of being the rule of the Divine dealings, is only a slight exception to them,--but we come now to a principle that absorbs all other considerations: virtue, the only intrinsic, infinite, everlasting good, is accessible to all. there were ever so strong and apparently just charges of partiality against the Divine Providence, this principle would be sufficient to vindicate it. "O God!" exclaims the Persian poet Sadi, "have pity on the wicked! for thou hast done everything for the good in having made them good!"

If

How false and earthly are our notions of what is evil! How possible is it that all advantages besides religion may prove the greatest calamities! How possible is it that distinction, that successful ambition, that popular applause, may be the most injurious, the most fatal evil that could befall us! How possible that wealth may be turned into the very worst of curses, by the self-indulgence, the dissipation, the vanity or hardness of heart, that it may produce! And there is a judgment, too, short of the judgment of heaven, that pronounces it to be so-the judgment of every right and noble sentiment, of all good sense, of all true friendship. There is a friend, not a flatterer, who, as he witnesses in some one this sad dereliction, this poor exultation of vanity, this miserable bondage to flattery, or this direful success of some dark temptation-who, as he witnesses this, will say in his secret thoughts, with the Persian sage, "O God! have pity on the wicked; have pity on my friend! would that he were poor and unnoticed, would that he were neglected or forsaken, rather than thus!" It is therefore a matter of doubt whether those things which we crave as blessings would really be such to us. And then, as to the trials of life, their unequalled benefits are a sufficient answer to every objection that can be brought against their unequal distribution.

We hear it said that there is much evil in the world; and this or that scene of suffering is brought as an example of the partial dealings of heaven; and it is felt, if it is not said, perhaps, that "God's ways are unequal." But the strongest objector on this ground, I think, would yield, if he saw that the attendant and fruit of all this suffering were a

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fortitude, a cheerfulness, a heavenliness, that shed brighter hues than those of earth upon the dark scene of calamity and sorrow. I have scen suffering, sorrow, bereavement, all that is darkest in human fortunes, clothed with a virtue so bright and beautiful, that sympathy was almost lost in the feeling of congratulation and joy. I have heard more than one sufferer say, "I am thankful; God is good to me;" and when I heard that, I said, "It is good to be afflicted." There is, indeed, much evil in the world; but without it, there would not be much virtue. The poor, the sick, and the afflicted, could be relieved from their trials at once, if it were best for them; but if they understood their own welfare, they would not desire exemption from their part in human trials. There might be a world of ease, and indulgence, and pleasure: but "it is a world," to use the language of another, "from which, if the option were given, a noble spirit would gladly hasten into that better world of difficulty and virtue and conscience, which is the scene of our present existence.'

In fine, religion is a blessing so transcendent, as to make it of little consequence what else we have, or what else we want. It is enough for us it is enough for us all; for him who is poor, for him who is neglected, for him who is disappointed and sorrowful; it is enough for him, though there were nothing else, that he may be good and happy for ever. In comparison with this, to be rich, to be prosperous, and merely that, is the most trifling thing that can be imagined. Is it not enough for us, my brethren, that we may gain those precious treasures of the soul which the world cannot give nor take away; that the joys and consolations and hopes of the Spirit and Gospel of Christ may be ours? Has not he a sufficiency-is not his heart full-is not his blessedness complete, who can say, "Whom have I in heaven but thee, and there is none upon earth that I desire besides thee: all things else may fail; my heart may lose its power, and my strength its firmness; but thou art the strength of my heart, and my portion for ever?"

The lesson, my friends, which these reflections lay before us is this; to learn that we are all partakers of one lot, children of one Father; to learn in whatsoever state we are, therewith to be content, and therein to be grateful. If you are ever tempted to discontent and murmuring, ask yourself, ask the spirit within you, formed for happiness, for glory and virtue, of what you shall complain. Ask the ten thousand mercies of your lives, of what you shall complain: or go and ask the bounties of nature; ask the sun that shines cheerfully upon you; ask the beneficent seasons as they roll, of what you shall complain; ask-ask of your Maker-but God forbid that you or I should be guilty of the heinous ingratitude! No, my friends, let us fix our thoughts, rather, upon the full and overflowing beneficence of heaven-upon the love of God. Let us fix our affections upon it, and then we shall have a sufficiency; then, though some may want and others may complain; though dissatisfaction may prey upon the worldly, and envy may corrode the hearts of the jealous and discontented; for us there shall be a sufficiency indeed; for us there shall be a treasure which the world cannot give, nor change, nor disturb-" an inheritance incorruptible and undefiled, and that fadeth not away."

ON THE MISERIES OF LIFE.

ROMANS viii. 20: "For the creature-that is man-was made subject to vanity -that is to suffering-not willingly, but by reason of him-or at the will of him-who hath subjected the same in hope."

In considering the spiritual philosophy of life, we cannot avoid the problem of human misery. The reality presses us on every side, and philosophy demands to sit in judgment on the fact.

I have often wondered that, with such themes as are presented to the pulpit, it could have ever been dull; still more that it should be proverbially dull. So practical are these themes, so profound, so intimate with all human experience, that I cannot conceive what is to be understood, save through utter perversion, by a dull religion, a dull congregation, or a dull pulpit. If there were an invading army just landed upon our shores; if there were a conflagration or a pestilence sweeping through our city, and we were assembled here to consider what was to be done-in all seriousness and most advisedly do I say, that no questions could be raised, on such an occasion, more vital to our welfare, than those which present themselves to us here, on every Sunday. Take off the covering of outward form and demeanour from the heart of society, and what do we see? Is there not a struggle and a war going on-not upon our borders, but in the midst of us-in our dwellings, and in our very souls?-a war, not for territory, nor for visible freedom; but for happiness, for virtue, for inward freedom! Are not misery and vice, as they were fire and pestilence, pressing, urging, threatening to sweep through this city, every day? Is not an interest involved in every day's action, thought, purpose, feeling, that is dearer than merchandise, pleasure, luxury, condition-dearer than life itself? Does any one say, that religion is some abstract concern, some visionary matter, fit only for weak enthusiasts or doting fools-which has nothing to do with him nor with his real welfare; a thing indifferentgone and given over to indifference,-beyond all hope of recovery; in which he cannot, for his life, interest himself? Ay, proud philosopher! or vain worldling! sayest thou that? Is misery something abstractwith which thou canst not interest thyself? Is sin-that source of misery is the wrong thought, the wrong deed-the deed folded, muffled in darkness, the thought shut up in the secret breast, which neither flashing eye nor flushing cheek may tell is this, I say, something abstract and indifferent? And is the holy peace of conscience, the joy of virtue, a thing for which a human being need 1 ot-cannot care? Nay, these are the great, invisible, eternal realities of our life-of our very

nature!