and the pressure of
temptation, there might be innocence, but not virtue. Equally evident
does it seem that, without an acquaintance with grief, there would soon
be but little of that uplifting tendency-that softening of the heart,
and sanctifying of the affections-which fit us for the dissolution of
our earthly ties, and for the communions of the spirit world. Beautiful
is this weaning efficacy of sorrow. By the ordinance of God, youth is
made to be content with this outward and palpable life. The sunshine and
the air-the flow of animal pleasures, encircled mysteriously with the
guardianship of parents, and the love of friends-are sufficient for the
child. But as we grow in years, there springs up a dissatisfaction, a
restlessness, of which we may be only half conscious, and still less
know how to cure. With some, this may subside into merely a fearful
and worldly discontent; others may heed the prophecy and lay hold on
a celestial hope, an immortal possession as the only remedy. In this
secret sense of want, which neither nature nor man can fill they will
hear already that low, divine voice,--"Come unto me, all ye that labor
and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest." But generally another
and more emphatic missionary is necessary. It is the veiled angel of
sorrow, who plucks away one thing and another that bound us here in ease
and security, and in the vanishing of these dear objects indicates the
true home of our affections and our peace. Thus, by rupture and loss we
become weaned from earth, and the dissatisfaction and discontent which
sorrow thus induces are as kind and providential as the carelessness of
youth.

Who does not see that it is so,--that as we journey on in life there
are made in our behalf preparations for another state of
being,--unmistakable premonitions of that fact which the author of
the Epistle to the Hebrews so eloquently states, that "here have we no
continuing city"? The gloss of objects in which we delighted is worn off
by attrition,--is sicklied o'er by care; the vanity of earthly things
startles us suddenly, like a new truth; the friends we love drop away
from our side into silence; desire fails; the grasshopper becomes
a burden; until, at length, we feel that our only love is not here
below,--until these tendrils of earth aspire to a better climate, and
the weight that has been laid upon us makes us stoop wearily to the
grave as a rest and a deliverance. We have, even through our te