ON THE DANGERS OF ADVERSITY.

No subject of exhortation is oftener chosen by the divine and the moralist than the dangers of prosperity and the blessings of adversity. It is a good subject, and deserves all that can be said upon it; but should not the reverse of the picture be sometimes held up to view? There is little need, perhaps, to dwell much on the moral advantages of prosperity in order to make it desired, as such a state needs no new attractions to render it beautiful in the eyes and welcome to the heart of man; but it seems desirable to point out to the child of immortality the dangers which beset the path of sorrow; a path which, though thorny to the feet and obstructed to the view, is generally represented as enlightened by the day-spring from on high, and infallibly tending to heights of holiness and peace. Do we sufficiently reflect that such is not its universal tendency? Are we aware that adversity has slain its thousands, though prosperity may have destroyed its ten thousands? It behoves us to be careful that, while we desire and aim at advancement in holiness, we are not lost through want of circumspection. While we guard against the snares of wealth, ease, and worldly privileges, let us not flatter ourselves that, as soon as sorrow overtakes us, we must necessarily become more worthy of the love of the Father who chasteneth us, that our hearts must necessarily be purified, and our affections elevated.

We shall be in great danger of falling into this fatal error if we take any other guide than the sound words of the gospel of Christ. Human guides may lead us astray; we may follow them as far as, on comparison, we may find their warnings to agree with the voice of divine truth, but no further. When the poor man attains wealth, when he who was unknown or despised, stands on the eminence of fame, when the bereaved mourner collects around him the elements of domestic peace, and is once more "safe bosomed in his loved and happy home," every voice is raised to warn him against the sins of ingratitude, pride, and avarice; these voices tell him the truth, and we shall do right to awaken a powerful echo in the bosom of others, or in our own, if we wish to preserve our innocence and security. But when the mourner's friends gather round him to speak to him of his peculiar safety, when they raise his sinking spirit by asserting that his sorrows are marks of God's especial favour; when they tell him that he will become holy by his discipline, that his sufferings entitle him to an inheritance in the future world, and that the clouds which encompass him are but the veil behind which a benignant Deity descends to commune with his chosen servant in his sanctuary, we must examine the enticing words of man's wisdom, and bring them to the test of Scripture. We must remember that adversity is sent to humble us; that it is a sign that we need correction; that it rather becomes the sufferer to cry, "Lord! be merciful to me, a sinner," than "Lord! I thank thee that I am not as other men are." We must remember that though sorrow may soften the heart, it may also harden it; that it may expand or contract the affections; that it may bring us to God or alienate us from him, according to our previous habits of mind, or to our course of action under the pressure of new circumstances. Instead of believing that the bitter draught of sorrow will assuredly confer immortality, we must bear in mind that it will act according to our preparation for its operation; it may renovate our powers; it may restore our vigour, and infuse new life into our spiritual frame; but it may also exert a relaxing and benumbing influence, and unawares lay us prostrate in eternal death. If we

do not endeavour to discern what influence the operations of Providence ought to have on our character, and strive to subject ourselves duly to them, we may expect in vain the precious results for which we look with confidence. Some results will be produced, perhaps valuable, perhaps noxious, but our expectations will be disappointed unless we anxiously observe, and, as far as possible, carefully direct the process. It is not every lump of earth which will yield gold in the crucible, and it is not every mind which will come forth from its fiery trial adorned with solid and shining virtues.

But though adversity may benefit some minds more than others, it has its dangers for all. That which is oftenest pointed out is distrust of the goodness of God. This is, however, in our opinion, by no means the greatest. In a Christian country like this, where every sabbath renews the praises of the Father of mercies, where preachers abound to display instances of his goodness, where through the whole range of its literature, from the volume which invites little children to "bless God, for he is very good," to that which appeals to his "glorious works" to shew that he is the "Parent of good," express acknowledgments of the benignity of Providence are found in every page, a belief in this benignity is so early formed and so strongly maintained, that it usually stands the shock of adverse events, and dwells, actively or passively, in the mind through life. It is almost as uncommon, in this age and country, to meet with a denial of the unalterable goodness of God, as a doubt of his existence. Those who are practically resigned to his will and those who are not, equally acknowledge the justice and mercy of that will. A much greater danger appears to us to be a tendency in the sufferer to imagine that he is an object of God's peculiar favour; that he is exalted in the sight of God and man by his mere suffering, independently of the effect which it may have on his character. Where this fatal notion once obtains entrance, presumption usurps the place of humility; the spirit condescends to receive the inflictions of its parent, and congratulates itself on its submission. It looks round to see what the world thinks of its resignation, and from that moment it becomes the slave of the world.

The world takes upon itself to prescribe rules for the demeanour of those who are under the pressure of sorrow; and hence is another snare for the weak and the worldly. The same events produce such different effects on different minds, that the innocent pleasures in which one mourner finds a welcome solace, may call up associations too powerful for the fortitude of another. But the world has one rule for all, and he who does not obey it must expect to meet its censure and its scorn. The humble sufferer who believes not that his feelings are of consequence enough to interfere with the comfort of others, who suppresses his sighs that the smiles of those around him may not be checked, who goes every where, and sees every one, and leaves no accustomed duty unperformed, is too often censured as wanting feeling; while he who shuts himself up, or is never seen but in gloom and tears, and who requires peculiar consideration for his situation from every one he sees and every company he enters, is held up to admiration as an example of refined sensibility, and is honoured with the praise of being "a true mourner." The world will judge; but he who submits his feelings and conduct to its judgment, takes upon him a yoke which will grow heavier with each day of his life in this world, and which may deliver him over to a still worse destiny in another. Any one who has studied the structure of the human mind is aware that there is no such thing as permanent, utter misery. Our associations are so complex, the pleasant are so mixed with the painful, the power of external objects over them is so great, and the ten

dency of the mind to call up pleasurable and consolatory thoughts is so strong, that no efforts of our own, from a regard to the opinion of the world, or any other motive, can long depress the elasticity of the soul. If such be the happy bent of our nature, why should it be counteracted? If we possess the power of enjoying innocent pleasures, our true wisdom is to seek them, whatever our circumstances may be, and whatever the world may think of our sensibilities.-It need scarcely be suggested how careful we should be not to censure our fellow-sufferers for shrinking from efforts which are beneficial to ourselves, or to judge of their conduct by our own, be the apparent similarity of the circumstances ever so striking. While we feel that the world may as well attempt to fathom the ocean, or reach the uttermost parts of the earth, as to compass our griefs or estimate our consolations, we must guard ourselves against a similar presumption, though our own discipline may have enlightened our eyes and instructed our judgments. Two other dangers next present themselves to our notice, opposite in their character, but equally formidable. There is much fear that the soul which has suffered much should become callous, and this peril may be enhanced by the very tendency of the mind, (to turn to pleasant thoughts wherever they can be found,) which has been mentioned as one of the happiest circumstances of our nature. It is a privilege which the Father of mercies has conferred on his rational offspring; and while it serves as an alleviation of our griefs and a means of refreshment and invigoration to the soul, it can be subservient only to good: but when we make use of it to turn our minds from serious reflection, to escape from Him who would purify us by salutary discipline, we convert our privilege into a curse. If, when we find our hopes disappointed and our blessings withdrawn, we can find a refuge from regret in the trifling interests of the world, if we play the truant to avoid our punishment, we must not congratulate ourselves on bearing it well; but should rather mourn that what ought to be the most efficacious means of grace does but harden our hearts, accumulate new perils upon our heads, and augment the heavy reckoning which futurity has in store against us. To this danger the strong and high spirit is most exposed: to its opposite, timidity, the gentle and humble soul is peculiarly liable.

But few words are necessary here. Those who have known what real sorrow is, know also what it is to tremble at every breath, to dread every change, to strain the aching sight to discern what new evils lie in the clouded future, to have a superstitious, unacknowledged feeling that every effort will end in disappointment, every blessing prove a snare, every acquisition give place to bereavement. They scarcely dare approach the streams of God's bounty lest they should be defiled with blood, and are ready to refuse to taste the fruits which he showers into their lap, lest they should find them dust and bitter ashes. This timidity may, for a while, consist with a desire to acquiesce in the appointments of Providence; but if not timely checked, it will lead through the gradations of despondency, ingratitude, and insensibility, to Atheism, speculative and practical.

Many more are the snares into which the unwary may fall in a state which is too often thought to be one of peculiar safety. But those which remain will suggest themselves to the mind of the reader under some of the preceding heads. The principal of those on which we cannot now enlarge are dreaminess,-living in a world of imagination and sentiment-and listlessness in the performance of necessary but irksome duties. The first arises from the before-mentioned error of fancying that the subjects of discipline are the objects of God's peculiar favour, in a strictly literal sense; the last,

from the selfishness against which, in various forms, we have been warning the reader. It is so evidently hostile to all improvement, so fatal to the hopes which ought to be the Christian's chief treasure, and all arguments against it are so obvious and so common, that the mere mention of it is sufficient here.

Of all these perils, those are the most formidable which endanger the sincerity and ingenuousness of the heart. But the soul may be lost where sincerity and resignation both exist; want of circumspection alone may be fatal. How important is this truth to us!

A man may mourn most deeply and most truly; he may earnestly desire to exercise resignation; he may, with the utmost sincerity, declare to himself that he does not wish one circumstance of his lot to be altered, and yet fall into snares as dangerous as any which can be found in the flowery paths of prosperity. He may arise in the morning, and pray with real devotion for resignation to bear, and strength to support, and then go forth, satisfied that the blessing of God is on him, and that he must necessarily be benefited by his trial. But when he enters the bustling scenes of the world, he fears to surrender himself to his accustomed impulses of activity, and to his longformed habits of employment. He is ashamed if he find that the objects before him have beguiled him of his grief for a while; he asks himself if the innocent enjoyment into which he was beginning to enter is not inconsistent with the regret which he owes to the memory of the friend he has lost, or the sympathy which is due to those with whom he is suffering. He remembers that he is in affliction, and has a vague idea that a peculiar frame of thought and manners must be maintained for some time after the blow has fallen. The consciousness of peculiar circumstances hangs upon him, and makes him look in every face for condolence, in every occurrence for consideration to his feelings, in every word for sympathy. He has heard and read so much of the experience of persons under trial, and knows so well how their demeanour is made a subject of speculation, that he believes it necessary to relate his own feelings, and to watch that his own behaviour accords with his circumstances. If he writes a letter to a friend, he fills his sheet with his thoughts of resignation; he tells of his consolations, his hopes, and the blessings which remain to him; and if he finds himself stopping his pen to choose his expressions, if he detects himself painting with words, if a suspicion flits across his mind that he is exciting his feelings in order to write, rather than writing to give a natural relief to his feelings, he recurs to the old impression that some record of his present state should remain, and that it is for the glory of religion that he should shew how great and how various are her consolations. Thus he passes the day, desiring that the will of God should be his will, and believing that it is so; but, in reality, thinking only of himself, and living only to himself. If, in the silent watches of the night, sad thoughts arise, and the tender remembrance of lost blessings comes to awaken the deepest emotions of his soul, he waters his pillow with tears, and indulges the anguish of a wounded spirit; still assuring himself that he does not and will not repine, and that this grief is only the fitting tribute of faithful affection. Again he rises, with an aching head and a heavy heart, wearied and enervated, and more engrossed with himself than ever, though he may again pray, and pray with sincerity, "Thy will be done." What are the consequences of such a course of feeling and action as this? What but daily increasing selfishness; morbid feelings which, instead of retaining or deepening their intensity, must induce insensibility; a gradual forgetfulness of God and disregard of duty; a growing craving for the sympathy, the

approbation, the applause of others; a paramount desire of being interesting, and the sacrifice of one thing after another, of all, for the sake of being so! Can any one say that this is an exaggerated picture? Happy is he who has never known such a victim to the dangers of adversity; but happier is he who has resisted and overcome similar perils, who has properly estimated his blessings while he possessed them, and become better by resigning them!

The means of such improvement are natural to some minds, easy to others, and attainable by all. The grand rule is to look to principles, and to leave feelings to take care of themselves. This rule includes every thing. Principle will lead the mourner to refer all to God; principle will oblige him to forget himself, and will suggest to him continual occasions of doing good to others. Principle will teach him that affliction is not intended to set him apart from others, but to enlighten his views of his relation to them, to exalt his affections towards them, to animate his efforts in their behalf. He must, sometimes, notwithstanding his endeavours to forget himself, feel what an aching void sorrow has left in his heart; but, instead of turning his view inwards to behold the desolation there, he will look abroad with a searching eye on the varied aspects which life presents to him: he will gather together all the images of peace, hope, and joy, which he can lay hold on, to supply the cravings of his affections. He will go forth into the world from the house of mourning, calm and erect, prepared to abide its storms, and ready to welcome its sunshine. He will have smiles for the infant, and a heart open to its little joys: he will have cheerfulness for the aged, and a ready hand to help their infirmities; he will have words of encouragement and of warning for the young, and a watchful eye to protect their interests; he will rejoice in their brilliant hopes as if they were his own, and will grieve for their destruction as if the loss were his. While he can "rejoice with those who rejoice," he will bury his peculiar griefs in his own bosom: when called on to "weep with those that weep," he will speak of himself only so far as to tell where he found the supports and comforts which, by the blessing of God, have been his. He does not desire to shroud his mind in mystery; it is there, clear and transparent, for all to look into who choose: he only wishes that the gusts of passion should not ruffle, or the clouds of despondency overshadow it. His regard to duty imposes on him the care of his health and of his tranquillity. The works of God are his study abroad; the word of God employs him at home. He keeps his powers in full exercise all day, and at night he seeks and obtains rest; or, if darkness and silence exert on him their peculiar influence of calling up the shadows of departed joys, he endeavours to be grateful that these joys were his; he estimates the privileges they have afforded him, and numbers the blessings he has left: he listens to the assurances of faith, that all these and many more are laid up for him as a treasure in heaven; and his soul glows with the resolution, that where his treasure is, there his heart shall be also. It requires no great discernment to trace the further progress of his discipline. We need only look at some who have thus trodden their thorny path, and then we may see how he will daily advance in the love of God and man, and in fitness for his heavenly destiny. He will attain the heights of holiness, and will encourage many to follow him thither; for he will say, by example, though not in words, "Be of good cheer; I have overcome the world."

Where one such sufferer is seen, we may rejoice in the power of religion, tended and cherished by adversity: when we see several, a whole family, submitting to the will of God, and working out their own and each other's