part of the congregation met to worship God and to hear his word in this very chapel. If you had been asked to point out who of all the number would first die, and how soon, you would scarcely have selected any two, on whom, according to human probability, it would have seemed less likely that the lot would fall so speedily. What follows? Why that every one here present at this moment, is in the very same uncertainty with regard to the termination of his life, as they were; that the very next sabbath may see us again diminished by the hand of death; and that no one of us can say, "This night I shall sleep in peace, to-morrow I shall awake in health, my soul shall not as yet be required of me;" for it is in every respect as likely that the funeral bell should toll in a few days for myself or any one of you, as a very little while ago it was that those two of our neighbours, whom now we miss, should in one week have been consigned to the grave, and that their place in this congregation should know them no more.

Shall we be so unwise, my brethren, as not to profit by these warnings? Shall we just make our general reflections on the insecurity of life, and forget the personal application with which they ought to be pressed upon our own hearts? Shall we feel as if we were secure spectators of

events that happen to others, and verify by our own folly that too well-founded observation, that "all men think all men mortal but themselves?" We may be cut off at a moment that we least expeet: surely we know this, or our own treacherous memories will not serve us for a day.

But now comes the important question. Do we know all this to any purpose? Is our knowledge of any practical use? Or, assured as we are of the insecurity of life, do we still live as if it could never elude our grasp? Do we live warily, and circumspectly, as men who are waiting for the coming of their Lord, and who are persuaded that it is of the utmost importance that he should find them watching? Or do we turn our eyes away from the truth that is displayed so clearly before them, and run our giddy round of pleasure, or toil on in the laborious drudgery of business and worldly occupation, without a serious thought of that approaching hour, when earthly pleasure and occupation must alike and for ever end.

Alas! I fear the impressions made by such solemn events as those which we have recently witnessed, are for the most part but momentary. Every one of you perhaps made some passing reflection on them. You said, how young to die! or how strong, to die so quickly! and that, with many, was the sum of their meditations. Few

went on to say," my own life then is very uncertain, and may be very brief,-I ought to be prepared for death,-I ought to wean myself from the follies and interests of the world, lest I should be surprised in my heedless course;" and fewer still carried those thoughts into immediate effect, and prayed to God to "teach them so to number their days, that they might apply their hearts unto wisdom!" Every thing about us conspires to banish the useful thought from our minds. There is business that calls us to active engagement in the affairs of life, and there are pleasures that invite us into scenes, where forgetfulness sprinkles her poppy-juice even on the once awakened conscience. The funeral pomp passes away like a fancied vision from the sight; the tolling of the bell, which struck for a moment on the startled ear, disturbs the air no more with its mournful sound; and we almost as soon forget the scene we saw, and the knell we heard, and hurry again into the busy scenes of our various pursuits, with scarcely a thought that similar sights and sounds will one day announce to our neighbours, our own removal from this world of vanity.

Such is usually the case with us, when we have no immediate interest in the affliction which God hath sent; the blast sweeps by unheeded;

secure in our own abodes, we feel not the rocking of the tempest without; we sleep on in peace, and are never aroused, until our own dwellings begin to totter, and our safety is endangered, then we "cry unto the Lord in our trouble," and seek for comfort and security in his protection. Happy therefore is it for us, that God from time to time visits us in our own homes, that he presses the awful truth of our mortality upon our own hearts, with a force that we must feel, and with a conviction that we cannot withstand. Happy for us, that he takes our friends, one by one, from our embrace, and leaves us mourners here, that our mourning may be turned into joy hereafter. Happy, when he disciplines us in the school of affliction, and draws us by the merciful rod of his correction, from this world unto himself.

He was a wise man, my brethren, who wrote those words of my text, "it is better to go to the house of mourning than to the house of feasting," for affliction is indeed a better teacher than prosperity; the one instructs us in true wisdom, the other but beguiles us with falsehood and deceit; the dark cloud which casts however melancholy a gloom on our earthly happiness will fall in a plentiful shower of blessings on our souls; the full sunshine of worldly joy too commonly only dazzles the sight,

so that it cannot "look steadily up to heaven," or scorches up the spiritual nutriment of the heart, leaving it a barren wilderness of thorns and briars, and unproductive of those fruits which alone can flourish to all eternity.

The truth however, and the wisdom of the saying of the preacher rest upon the truth of that gospel which we have received, and which professes to have "brought life and immortality to light." Were man like the beasts that perish, destined for no nobler end, with no soul within him, formed to survive the decay of the body and the lapse of time, I would not preach to you such a doctrine as this; my labour would be in vain, for I could not hope to dry one tear of sorrow, by bidding you look forward to a blessed day when you shall reap in joy. I should know, and you would know, that affliction then, though it might still be borne with fortitude, or mitigated by resignation, could on no account be esteemed a blessing.

And truly, too many do live as if this supposition were really true, and there were no better life to come. How carefully do they shun all serious thought as if it were the very bane and poison of their pleasure. How do they shut up every avenue of the mind against the unpleasant intruder. How do they hurry from one amusement, from one scene of festivity to another, as if