highest regard on. It follows, therefore, that when we see a man neglect all other concerns, to set forward and accomplish one particular design; when we see it takes up all his thoughts, is perpetually in his mouth, exercises not only his brain, but his feet, his hands, his whole body, in such excessive labours by night, and by day, over hills and dales, through land and sea, as one would think it almost impossible for human nature to undergo, we may conclude he thinks it the most excellent of all things, the supreme good.

But, thirdly, The dangers he faces, for that which he is in pursuit of, shew, to demonstration, what is his god. He will stand the mark of all the musquetry and cannon of a great army, for ten hours, to recommend himself to the favour of his deity. He will place himself on a plank, and let the winds and waves whirl him about, like a straw, while death presents itself to his astonished heart in the most hideous forms; he will roast himself to a cinder in the furnace of a burning climate, and afterward freeze to an icicle in a cold one, to get a little nearer to the object of all his wishes. After seeing him do all this, we need not ask him what is his god.

And if we may judge of the zeal and devotion, wherewith he worships, by the greatness and expense of the sacrifices he offers, he is, beyond all question, the most furious zealot for his god, that can be conceived. Other bigots, along with some cool prayers, offer a ram, a goat, a bullock, or it may be a hundred bullocks at once. But this is nothing: the worshipper I am speaking of offers up all the real comforts of life, and throws in his honour, and his conscience, if those be any thing, to make his sacrifice the more perfect. Another man perhaps offers up his child, his only and be loved son, the comfort of his life, and the prop of his old age; but this is only a trifle: our devotee sacrifices himself, sacrifices his life, and his soul to his god; and burns himself, on a fiercer fire than ever was kindled to Moloch; I mean that fire, which is fed in this life with flaming lust and raging passions, and turns in the next to inextinguishable brimstone. And do these deities deserve such prodigious services and sacrifices?

To begin with riches: Are they the supreme good? Can they save us from sickness or death? Can they deliver us

from eternal misery? Or can they purchase us the joys and glories of heaven? If they cannot, the worldling pays too dearly for them. Is he sure, after all his pains, to obtain them, that he shall succeed? Or, if he is sure of this, is he certain they will stay with him? May they not 'make themselves wings and fly away?' Or, if they do stay, will they defend him from all dangers, and make him happy? No; they are the very root of all evil.' They will swell him with pride. They will drown him in luxury. They will afflict him with sickness, and hasten his death. They will lead him out of the narrow path, into the broad way of this world. They are hard to be acquired, harder still to be kept, and those who do keep them, are exposed to envy, and fraud, and robbery; they are exposed to what is worse, their own eternal anxiety and fears. Nay, it often happens, that when there is no thief to pillage them, they by their own penury effectually plunder themselves; when there is no invader to murder them for what they possess, they sometimes turn their passion into distraction, lay violent hands on themselves, and die martys at last to their god.

As to honour or praise, which is the idol of so many weak and empty people, what is it? It is compounded of the vanity, with which the self-conceited heart feeds itself, and of the praises of others. Is the being well spoken of such a mighty matter? Does it much concern us what either the fool thinks, or the flatterer says, of us? No: but in order to mend the compliment paid us, we are apt to think him neither fool, nor knave, who makes it. But let him be what he will, can the opinion of another give us a better opinion of ourselves, than we had before? Or are we so very modest as to need it? Can others discover those beauties and excellencies in us, which sharp-sighted vanity cannot see? Or can the mistaken esteem, or the false applause of the world, refute to us the inward reproaches of our own hearts and consciences? Does our happiness subsist on the mere breath of the crowd? The truth is, no one was ever very desirous of praise, who had worth enough to deserve it.

He who places his joy in admiring himself; who having no other, turns his own flatterer, does but set up an idol of himself, and not his true self, for his god. Those Pagans,

who worshipped the image of a hero, or public benefactor, had more to say for their religion, than this idolater, who adores, we may venture to say, one of the silliest and most worthless animals in the creation, as ridiculous and nauseous to every body else, as the deified monkies and garlick of the Egyptians.

Honour is but an airy and notional divinity. Is power more real and solid? Power is, for the most part, desired chiefly for the sake of honour; and when it is, is esteemed as much inferior to it, as the means are to the end. Power is the most difficult of all acquisitions, and the most troublesome of all possessions. There is generally no struggling up to it in time of peace, without such base means, and servile arts, as it is surprising the proud, and the ambitious, can ever prevail on themselves to stoop to. And what is it they struggle for? Why, to stand on a pinnacle exposed to the same arts incessantly employed to bring them down. There is no arriving at power by the sword, without undergoing toils, and being exposed to dangers, which no man in his senses could think of encountering for the sake of any thing, less than God and heaven. The great ones laugh at the little man, who, with high ambition, aspires to the dignity of a sub-sheriff's rod, or a constable's staff; yet their passion and his are the same, and the end they aim at no way different. He is as vain of his place, and better pleased with it, than Alexander the Great with his vast dominion. And now we have mentioned this most powerful prince, he will serve, better than any other, to exemplify the vanity of ambition and worldly dominion in all men; for none can hope to go higher than he did; none indeed, but a madman, can expect to rise to any thing like the power and grandeur he arrived at. What countries did Alexander conquer? How long did he reign? What became of him and his power? He conquered but a small spot on a little ball of earth; and, when he was very young, the juice of a few grapes, trod but a little before by the feet of a poor labourer, went boldly up to him, in the midst of all his guards, his armies, his power; dragged him from his throne, and threw him into a ditch. Why did not his god, whom he had sacrificed so many human victims to, and for whom he had so often exposed himself, deliver him from this contemptible

enemy? Power could not make good, what it had so long promised him; all it could gather, to give him contentment from so many glorious victories, was just so much wine as was sufficient to deliver him from the load his successful ambition had laid upon him. Wherein then does the grandeur of this world consist? It is much the same as that of the most considerable bee in a hive, or the strongest reptile in a bed of ants. It is but a poor ambition, that hath no bounds. That of Alexander and Cæsar had none. How did they laugh at the low-spirited aims of such as aspired to some office under them, perhaps to be the servant of their servants, in a succession of many degrees, down to the meanest officer in their courts or armies! In what a contemptible light does all subordinate ambition appear, when that of the greatest conquerors that ever lived, shews itself to be so very low, so very little, in the eye of sound reason.

As to pleasure, he who makes that his god, should have, one would think, a very indulgent deity of it. The case is however quite otherwise. There is not a severer, nor a more dreadful devil to serve, in all the regions of darkness. The enjoyments, with which he tempts silly people into his service, are trifling to the last degree, and continue but for a moment? for human nature is, by its wise Author, greatly stinted and bounded on the side of sensual pleasure. And what follows these momentary dreams of delight? Why, sudden shame, grievous disappointment, intolerable remorse, painful sickness, shocking death. No sort of slave hath so bad a time of it, or suffers so much as the man of pleasure. The sow, and he, may be almost said to mess on the same dish, which, when they have finished, they roll themselves on a dunghill, think of nothing above it, and lose themselves in filth and stupidity, till they are roused to the slaughter; and the knife,' or the dart,' strikes through the liver.'

Are these thy gods, O Christian? O vain, pretended Christian? These! which you renounced, when you took on you the profession of a Christian! But it now appears, your baptismal covenant is forgot and neglected, as an empty ceremony. The word of God too is as little set by, where these things are so often, and in so strong terms, represented as the enemies of God and your soul, as the springs of all evil, as the snares of the devil, as ' vanity and

vexation of spirit.' Confess the truth; does not your experience fully prove the same thing to you? Have you been yet able to raise yourself to such a fortune, to such honours, power, or pleasures, as can satisfy you, or pay you for the labour, and vexation, they cost you? Or, if you have, how long, think you, will you be able to continue in the enjoyment of them? A few years must infallibly tear you from them. Thou fool, perhaps this night thy soul shall be required of thee.' Can these things defend you against the changes of fortune, against unhappy accidents, against the stings of conscience, or sickness, or death? Are you sure they can deliver you out of the hands of the living God,' from whom you have revolted, to serve these vanities? But you will say, I know all this, and do neither rest in the riches, or pomps, or pleasures, of the world; I do not wor-. ship them, nor set them above God in my affections; but however find it necessary, while I am here, to make some provision for a competent and decent subsistence. Do not deceive yourselves, nor mock God. Since you give incomparably more of your thoughts and labours to the world than to God, it is too evident, that the world is uppermost in your heart. Do you labour whole days, do you rise up early, and late take rest, for God, as you do for the bread of affliction? Do you ever spend a whole week in settling a spiritual account? Do you make laborious journeys, do you take long voyages, do you fight dangerous battles, for God? Recollect how often you, who have endured with patience the keenest severity of the weather, and faced outrageous storms in the pursuit of worldly things, have been kept back from the worship of God by a cold day or a slight shower, and you will then perceive, whether it is God or the world that holds the first place in your heart. Did you give to God and religion the tenth part of that care and anxiety, which you lavish on the world, you would stand with the foremost of the saints in God's service; the exercise of private devotion would not seem so irksome to you, as it does; nor would it be so hard a matter to draw you to God's house, or table; you would need no compulsion to bring you in.

As to that which you call by the name of competency and decency, words big with deceit, ought it not to have some bounds? And are you not yet sensible you have set