impulse, God having founded that in him as a provisional security to make him social, yet, though it is a reason in nature, 'tis a reason to him yet undiscovered. Youth is not apt to philosophize so deeply, but follows as it feels itself prompted by the inward workings of benevolence, without view to itself, or previous calculation either of the loss or profit which may accrue. Agreeably to this, observe how warmly, how heartily he enters into friendships how disinterested and unsuspicious in the choice of them! how generous and open in his professions! how sincere and honest in making them good! When his friend is in distress, what lengths he will go! what hazards he will bring upon himself! what embarrassment upon his affairs, to extricate and serve him! If man is altogether a selfish creature, as these moralizers would make him, 'tis certain he does not arrive at the full maturity of it in this time of his life. No. If he deserves any accusation, 'tis in the other extreme, 'That in his youth he is generally more fool than knave;' and so far from being suspected of living to himself, that he lives rather to everybody else; the unconsciousness of art and design in his own intentions rendering him so utterly void of a suspicion of it in others as to leave him too oft a bubble to every one who will take the advantage. But, you'll say, he soon abates of these transports of disinterested love; and as he grows older, grows wiser, and learns to live more to himself.

Let us examine.

That a longer knowledge of the world, and some experience of insincerity, will teach him a lesson of more caution in the choice of friendships, and less forwardness in the undistinguished offers of his services, is what I grant. But if he cool of these, does he not grow warmer still in connections of a different kind? Follow him, I pray you, into the next stage of life, where he has entered into engagements, and appears as the father of a family, and you will see the passion still remains, the stream somewhat more confined, but it runs the stronger for it: the same benevolence of heart, altered only in its course, and the difference of objects towards which it tends. Take a short view of him in this light, as acting under the many tender claims which that relation lays upon him, spending many weary days and sleepless nights, utterly forgetful of himself, intent only upon his family, and with an anxious heart contriving and labouring to preserve it from distress, against that hour when he shall be taken from its protection. Does such a one live to himself? He who rises early, late takes rest, and eats the bread of carefulness, to save others the sorrow of doing so after him. Does such an one live only to himself? Ye who are parents, answer this question for him. How oft have ye sacrificed your health-your ease-your pleasures

nay, the very comforts of your lives, for the sake of your children! How many indulgences have ye given up! What self-denials and difficulties have ye cheerfully undergone for them! In their sickness, or reports of their misconduct, how have ye gone on your way sorrowing! What alarms within you, when fancy forebodes but imaginary misfortunes hanging over them! But when real ones have overtaken them, and mischief befallen them in the way in which they have gone, how sharper than a sword have ye felt the workings of parental kindness! In whatever period of human life we look for proofs of selfishness, let us not seek them in this relation of a parent, whose whole life, when truly known, is often little else but a succession of cares, heart-aches, and disquieting apprehensions, enough to show that he is but an instrument in the hands of God to provide for the well-being of others, to serve their interests as well as his own.

If you try the truth of this reasoning upon every other part or situation of the same life, you will find it holds good in one degree or other. Take a view of it out of these closer connections, both of a friend and parent; consider him for a moment under that natural alliance in which even a heathen poet has placed him, namely, that of a man, and as such, to his honour, as one incapable of standing unconcerned in whatever concerns his fellow-creatures. Compassion has so great a share in our nature, and the miseries of this world are so constant an exercise of it, as to leave it in no one's power, who deserves the name of man in this respect, to live to himself.

He cannot stop his ears against the cries of the unfortunate. The sad story of the fatherless, and him that has no helper, must be heard.

The sorrowful sighing of the prisoner will come before him ;' and a thousand other untold cases of distress to which the life of man is subject find a way to his heart, let interest guard the passage as it will. If he has this world's goods, and seeth his brother have need, he will not be able to shut up his bowels of compassion from him.'

Let any man of common humanity look back upon his own life as subjected to these streng claims, and recollect the influence they have had upon him. How oft the mere impulses of generosity and compassion have led him out of his way! In how many acts of charity and kindness his fellow-feeling for others has made him forget himself! In neighbourly offices, how oft he has acted against all considerations of profits, convenience, nay, sometimes even of justice itself! Let him add to this account Low much, in the progress of his life, has been given up even to the lesser obligations of civility and good manners! What restraints they have laid him under! How large a portion of his time, ! how much of his inclination, and the plan of

life he should most have wished, has from time to time been made a sacrifice to his good-nature, and disinclination to give pain or disgust to others!

Whoever takes a view of the life of man, in this glass wherein I have shown it, will find it so beset and hemmed in with obligations of one kind or other, as to leave little room to suspect that man can live to himself; and so closely has our Creator linked us together, as well as all other parts of his works, for the preservation of that harmony in the frame and system of things which his wisdom has at first established, that we find this bond of mutual dependence, however relaxed, is too strong to be broke; and I believe that the most selfish men find it is so, and that they cannot in fact live so much to them as the narrowness of their own heart inclines them. If these reflections are just, upon the moral relations in which we stand to each other, let us close the examination with a short reflection upon the great relation in which we stand to God.

The first and more natural thought on this subject, which at one time or other will thrust itself upon every man's mind, is this, that there is a God who made me, to whose gift I owe all the powers and faculties of my soul, to whose providence I owe all the blessings of my life, and by whose permission it is that I exercise and enjoy them; that I am placed in this world as a creature of but a day, hastening to the place whence I shall not return; that I am accountable for my conduct and behaviour to this great and wisest of beings, before whose judgment-seat I must finally appear and receive the things done in my body, whether they are good or whether they are bad.

Can any one doubt but the most inconsiderate of men sometimes sit down coolly, and make some such plain reflections as these upon their state and condition? or that, after they have made them, can one imagine they lose all effect? Little appearance as there is of religion in the world, there is a great deal of its influence felt in its affairs; nor can one so root out the principles of it, but, like nature, they will return again, and give checks and interruptions to guilty pursuits. There are seasons when the thoughts of a just God overlooking, and the terror of an after-reckoning, have made the most determined tremble and stop short in the execution of a wicked purpose; and if we conceive that the worst of men lay some restraint upon themselves from the weight of this principle, what shall we think of the good and virtuous part of the world, who live under the perpetual influence of it, who sacrifice their appetites and passions from a consciousness of their duty to God, and consider him as the object to whom they have dedicated their service, and make that the first principle and ultimate end of all their actions? How many real and unaffected

instances there are in the world of men thus governed, will not concern us so much to inquire, as to take care that we are of the number; which may God grant, for the sake of Jesus Christ. Amen.

VIII.-TIME AND CHANCE.

'I returned, and saw under the sun, that the race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, neither yet bread to the wise, nor yet riches to men of understanding, nor yet favour to men of skill; but time and chance happened to them all.'-ECCLES. IX. 11. WHEN a man casts a look upon this melancholy description of the world, and sees, contrary to all his guesses and expectations, what different fates attend the lives of men,-how oft it happens in the world that there is not even bread to the wise, nor riches to men of understanding, etc.,-he is apt to conclude, with a sigh upon it, in the words, though not in the sense, of the wise man, that time and chance happen to them all; that time and chance, apt seasons and fit conjunctures, have the greatest sway in the turns and disposals of men's fortunes,-and that as these lucky hits (as they are called) happen to be for or against a man, they either open the way to his advancement against all obstacles, or block it up against all helps and attempts; that, as the text intimates, neither wisdom, nor understanding, nor skill, shall be able to surmount them.

However widely we may differ in our reasonings upon this observation of Solomon's, the authority of the observation is strong beyond doubt, and the evidence given of it in all ages so alternately confirmed by examples and complaints, as to leave the fact itself unquestionable. That things are carried on in this world sometimes so contrary to all our reasoning, and the seeming probabilities of success,-that even the race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong!-nay, what is stranger still, nor yet bread to the wise, who shall last stand in want of it; nor yet riches to men of understanding, who you would think best qualified to acquire them; nor yet favour to men of skill, whose merit and pretences bid the fairest for it; but that there are some secret and unseen workings in human affairs which baffle all our endeavours, and turn aside the course of things in such a manner that the most likely causes disappoint and fail of producing for us the effect which we wished and naturally expected from them.

You will see a man who, were you to form a conjecture from the appearance of things in his favour, you would say was setting out in the world with the fairest prospect of making his fortune in it-with all the advantages of birth to recommend him, of personal merit to speak for him, and of friends to help and push him forwards; you will behold him, notwithstanding

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this, disappointed in every effect you might naturally have looked for from them! Every step he takes towards his advancement, something invisible shall pull him back, some unforeseen obstacle shall rise up perpetually in his way, and keep him there. In every application he makes, some untoward circumstance shall blast it. shall rise early-late take rest-and eat the bread of carefulness; yet some happier man shall still rise up, and ever step in before him, and leave him struggling, to the end of his life, in the very same place in which he first began it.

The history of a second shall in all respects be the contrast to this. He shall come into the world with the most unpromising appearance,— shall set forwards without fortune, without friends, without talents to procure him either the one or the other; nevertheless, you will see this clouded prospect brighten up insensibly, unaccountably, before him; everything presented in his way shall turn out beyond his expectations; in spite of that chain of unsurmountable difficulties which first threatened him, time and chance shall open him a way; a series of successful occurrences shall lead him by the hand to the summit of honour and fortune, and, in a word, without giving him the pains of thinking, or the credit of projecting it, shall place him in safe possession of all that ambition could wish for.

The histories of the lives and fortunes of men are full of instances of this nature,-where favourable times and lucky accidents have done for them what wisdom or skill could not; and there is scarce any one who has lived long in the world, who, upon looking backwards, will not discover such a mixture of these in the many successful turns which have happened in this life, as to leave him very little reason to dispute against the fact, and, I should hope, as little upon the conclusions to be drawn from it. Some, indeed, from a superficial view of this representation of things, have atheistically inferred that, because there was so much of lottery in this life, and mere casualty seemed to have such a share in the disposal of our affairs, that the providence of God stood neuter and unconcerned in their several workings, leaving them to the mercy of time and chance to be furthered or disappointed as such blind agents directed; whereas, in truth, the very opposite conclusion follows: for, consider, if a superior intelligent Power did not sometimes cross and overrule events in this world, then our policies and designs in it would always answer according to the wisdom and stratagem in which they were laid, and every cause, in the course of things, would produce its natural effect without variation. Now, as this is not the case, it necessarily follows, from Solomon's reasoning, that if the race is not to the swift, if knowledge and learning do not always secure

men from want, nor care and industry always make men rich, nor art and skill infallibly make men high in the world, that there is some other cause which mingles itself in human affairs, and governs and turns them as it pleases; which cause can be no other than the First Cause of all things, and the secret and overruling providence of that Almighty God who, though his dwelling is so high, yet he humbleth himself to behold the things that are done on earth, raising up the poor out of the dust, and lifting the beggar from the dunghill, and, contrary to all hopes, putting him with princes, even with the princes of his people; which, by the way, was the case of David, who makes the acknowledgment. And, no doubt, one reason why God has selected to his own disposal so many instances as this, where events have run counter to all probabilities, was to give testimony to his providence in governing the world, and to engage us to a consideration and dependence upon it, for the event and success of our undertakings. For, undoubtedly, as I said, it should seem but suitable to nature's laws that the race should ever be to the swift, and the battle to the strong; it is reasonable that the best contrivances and means should have best success; and since it often falls out otherwise in the case of man, where the wisest projects are overthrown, and the most hopeful means are blasted, and time and chance happen to all, you must call on the Deity to untie this knot: for though, at sundry times, sundry events fall out which we, who look no further than the events themselves, call chance, because they fall out quite contrary both to our intentions and our hopes, yet, at the same time, in respect of God's providence overruling in these events, it were profane to call them, chance, for they are pure designation, and, ¦ though invisible, are still the regular dispensations of the superintending power of that Almighty Being from whom all the laws and powers of nature are derived, who, as he has appointed, so holds them as instruments in his hand, and, without invading the liberty and free-will of his creatures, can turn the passions and desires of their hearts to fulfil his own righteousness, and work such effects in human affairs, which to us seem merely casual, but to him certain and determined, and what his infinite wisdom sees necessary to be brought about for the government and preservation of the world, over which Providence perpetually presides.

When the sons of Jacob had cast their brother Joseph into the pit for his destruction, one would think, if ever any incident which concerned the life of man deserved to be called chance, it was this, that the company of the Ishmaelites should happen to pass by, in that

1 Vide Tillotson's Sermon on this subject.

great joy and festivity of that promised day, when they were to return once more to their own land, to enter upon their ancient possessions, and enjoy again all the privileges they had lost; and, amongst others, and what was above them all, the favour and protection of God, and the continuation of his mercies to them and their posterity.

To make, therefore, the impression of his change the stronger upon their minds, he gives a very pathetic representation of the preceding sorrow on that day when they were first led away captive.

Thus saith the Lord, A voice was heard in Rama, lamentation and bitter weeping; Rachael weeping for her children, refusing to be comforted, because they were not.

To enter into the full sense and beauty of this description, it is to be remembered that the tomb of Rachael, Jacob's beloved wife, as we read in the 35th of Genesis, was situated near Rama, and betwixt that place and Bethlehem. Upon which circumstance, the prophet raises one of the most affecting scenes that could be conceived; for as the tribes, in their sorrowful journey betwixt Rama and Bethlehem, in their way to Babylon, were supposed to pass by this monumental pillar of their ancestor Rachael, Jacob's wife, the prophet, by a common liberty in rhetoric, introduces her as rising up out of her sepulchre, and as the common mother of two of their tribes, weeping for her children, bewailing the sad catastrophe of her posterity led away into a strange land,refusing to be comforted because they were not; lost, and cut off from their country, and, in all likelihood, never to be restored back to her again.

The Jewish interpreters say, upon this, that the patriarch Jacob buried Rachael in this very place, foreseeing, by the spirit of prophecy, that his posterity should that way be led captive, that she might, as they passed her, intercede for them.

But this fanciful superstructure upon the passage seems to be little else than a mere dream of some of the Jewish doctors; and, indeed, had they not dreamt it when they did, 'tis great odds but some of the Romish dreamers would have hit upon it before now. For, as it favours the doctrine of intercessions, if there had not been undeniable vouchers for the real aventors of the conceit, one should much sooner have sought for it amongst the oral traditions of this church, than in the Talmud, where it is.

But this by the bye. There is still another interpretation of the words here cited by St. Matthew, which altogether excludes this scenical representation I have given of them. By which, 'tis thought that the lamentation of Rachael, here described, has no immediate reference to Rachael, Jacob's wife, but that it simply alludes to the sorrows of her descen.

dants, the distressed mothers of the tribes of Benjamin and Ephraim, who might accompany their children led into captivity as far as Rama, in their way to Babylon, who wept and wailed upon this sad occasion, and, as the prophet describes them in the person of Rachael, refusing to be comforted for the loss of her children; looking upon their departure without hope or prospect of ever beholding a return.

Whichever of the two senses you give the words of the prophet, the application of them by the evangelist is equally just and faithful; for, as the former scene he relates was transacted upon the very same stage, in the same district of Bethlehem, near Rama, where so many mothers of the same tribe now suffered this second most affecting blow,—the words of Jeremiah, as the evangelist observes, were literally accomplished; and no doubt in that horrid day a voice was heard again in Rama, lamentation and bitter weeping, Rachael weeping for her children, and refusing to be com forted,-every Bethlehemitish mother involved in this calamity, beholding it with hopeless sorrow, gave vent to it, each one bewailing her children, and lamenting the hardness of their lot, with the anguish of a heart as incapable of consolation as they were of redress. Monster! could no consideration of all this tender sorrow stay thy hands? Could no reflection upon so much bitter lamentation throughout the coasts of Bethlehem, interpose and plead in behalf of so many wretched objects as this tragedy would make? Was there no way open to ambition, but that thou must trample upon the affections of nature? Could no pity for the innocence of childhood, no sympathy for the yearnings of parental love, incline thee to some other measures for thy security, but thou must thus pitilessly rush in, take the victim by violence, tear it from the embraces of the mother, offer it up before her eyes, leave her disconsolate for ever, brokenhearted with a loss, so affecting in itself, so circumstanced with horror, that no time, how friendly soever to the mournful, should ever be able to wear out the impression?

There is nothing in which the mind of man is more divided than in accounts of this horrid nature. For, when we consider man as fashioned by his Maker,-innocent and upright, full of the tenderest dispositions, with a heart inclining him to kindness and the love and protection of his species,-this idea of him would almost shake the credit of such accounts; so that, to clear them, we are forced to take a second view of man, very different from this favourable one, in which we insensibly represent him to our imaginations,—that is, we are obliged to consider him, not as he was made, but as he is,-a creature, by the violence and irregularity of his passions, capable of being perverted from all these friendly and benevolent