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grave; nor of final peace, till you enter that land where the inhabitants learn war no

more.

My friend, let us meditate for a few moments on death and judgment; they are sometimes the only views that have a quenching influence upon unholy tumult of heart. Let us suppose the restraints removed that now shackle you; all the dazzling dreams your wild heart pictures, fulfilled; all that now you long for without daring to acquire, given to your grasp, and given in connexion with a power of enjoyment, undisturbed by self-reproach or anxious forebodings; suppose that you have the banquet of life without the sword of conscience-what then? Insensibility to danger does not include freedom from danger: the blind man may wander to the brink of a precipice without fear, but can he fall from it without destruction? We walk upon the verge of two worlds; closely are we encompassed with spiritual agencies, ever plotting our ruin or discomfort; at our feet, perchance, lies the very grave that awaits us; and the veil

which divides time from eternity, can we say when for us it shall be rent? can we say when it shall not? Surely this uncertainty of duration were in itself enough to chasten enjoyment, however safe: what effect, then, will it have upon enjoyment snatched with hasty fear from the midst of a thousand dangers-snatched in defiance of God's frown? But can the mind that has once exulted in the contemplation of so glorious a Being as God, ever really be entranced with worldly delights? Can gold, or adulation, or pageantry, or knowledge if it have no reference to man as immortal, or affection if this world is its horizon-ever bribe a renewed soul into happiness? Can all, in concentrated perfection, suffice for a soul that has once "made towards God as its principle and fountain, exerting itself in holy and affectionate thoughts of him, sometimes on one of his attributes, sometimes on another, as the bee amongst flowers?"* It cannot-cannot be. You may not find sweetness in religion, but every thing else you will find positively * Leighton.

embittered; it is so even now, it will increase at every succeeding step of declension. There is a littleness, an insufficiency in the noblest objects, if viewed merely in reference to time; while there is honour in the meanest duty, elevation in the humblest being, consequence in the commonest action, which principle connects with God. Deny it as we please, all things glow with beauty, dignity, and worth, in precise proportion as they relate to him, his will, and his glory.

Oh, my friend! return to this Fountain of unfailing, unimaginable fulness! Go back to this Rest so sweet, so stable! Break the ensnaring bonds that detain you from it; they are withes to him who determines to escape, fetters to the willing captive only! Look again to that Cross "so mournfully mysteriously divine." Flee once more to the city of refuge; its gates are not yet closed; the avenger of blood yet lingers; there is yet room-there is yet time; return, return, return!

LETTER XIX.

MY DEAR

I HAVE addressed you before on subjects connected with your welfare; I am about to address you again in a more decided manner. I desire to bring the controversy between your soul and God more palpably to an issue; to shew you the fearful consequences of thus "halting between two opinions;" to put the alternative of walking with God, and walking after your own imaginations, in its real and terrific magnitude. I do so with mingled and mournful feelings; under a sense of inadequacy to the effort, of despondency as to the result, of

sorrow that you should so willingly hazard and lightly value that, of which Omnipotence alone could estimate the worth, and therefore could alone redeem! You tell me you are unhappy; how should you be otherwise? Your conscience convinces you of sin in neglecting this great salvation; your reason tells you that "it is no vain thing, that it is your life;" and sometimes your heart inclines you to say, "I will arise and go to my FatherI will surrender this hidden world of hopes and desires, affections and fancies, restless as a troubled sea, unstable as the flitting clouds, cold and earthly as the grave, to the influence of that Spirit which will purify, and strengthen, and console; which will supply what I need a sufficient motive; and give what I seek-happiness." Thus, when under some transient impression of the goodness of God, you feel and determine; but the exciting cause is no sooner withdrawn, the sermon, the address, or the book no sooner closed, than the veil returns to your heart, the blindness to your eyes, and the old rebelling principle again enthrones itself in

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