THE TEMPTATIONS INCIDENT TO AFFLICTION.

It is a common thing, to consider the careless hours of prosperity as the peculiar season of temptation; a season when the soul becomes thoughtless of important and serious duties, when the affections are in dan ger of being absorbed by trifles, when self-examination is likely to be neglected, and the strains of pleasure become so sweet and powerful as to drown the murmurs of conscience. But while human life is what it was meant to be, a scene of probation, there is no temporary exemption for us from the assaults of temptation; each crisis of our affairs brings with it, under some new modification, the trial of our virtue; and along the whole journey of life, snares are spread for us by the road-side, whether hidden among the roses of pleasure, or the rank and melancholy weeds of affliction. Many perhaps hardly realize that in the hour of adversity the soul is as likely to neglect watchfulness as in the time of gayer abstractions.

The first temptation, in seasons of sudden calamity, is, to utter loose assevertions of our trust in God, while we are indulging ourselves in emotions inconsistent with that trust. We shrink from a charge of disputing God's will as from an accusation of shocking impiety. But what avails this, unless our confidence in him is as it should be-unless it is a strong, practical, operating principle within us? If it be not of this character, one great duty, in the midst of whatever presses upon our mind, is, to make it so. If we neglect this duty, we have slighted our first lesson, thrown away the first ad

vantage offered by affliction, and yielded to its first temptation.

The next temptation in adversity, is, to exaggerate whatever advantage we may have suddenly lost. Perhaps we did not sufficiently prize the blessing while in our possession; and now a sudden, late, and vain consciousness of this neglect naturally leads us into an over estimate of its value. This tends uselessly to aggravate and prolong our unhappiness; and, like all error of judgment or feeling, is to be deprecated.

Akin to this dangerof over estimating departed happiness, is that of undervaluing blessings left us. To say that this is sinful, is not using a term too harsh. It is possible to turn our thoughts upon whatever good and bright surrounds us. The power of controlling thought is attainable, in a high degree, by resolute and persevering effort. When our afflicted spirits descend from heaven to earth, bringing from their high communion, it is to be hoped, peace and comfort, they should next turn to a search after consolation among surrounding objects; for in these too it may be found. God never yet left any human being utterly desolate, without any object of affection and duty but himself. If we have lost power and splendor, domestic happiness may be left us. Even though domestic happithe dearest of all blessings, next to a consciousness of God's approbation, be ruthlessly shattered, if we turn instantly and in a right spirit to the task, we may collect the scattered fragments, and rebuild the fair temple in something of its former beauty. A pillar may be wanting; we must not look where it stood. This grateful and soothing recollection of still

ness,

remaining blessings is fostered by contemplation; yet we are tempted in adversity to turn from it; an inconsistency in our nature which reason and piety should over-rule.

Again, there is in the indulgence of melancholy associations, a luxury to which an undisciplined mind is apt to yield. It is wrong on every account. Good cannot come of it; evil may. There is much of such association which will force itself upon a heart not utterly unfeeling; the sound of plaintive music, or of an air formerly played, or loved by the dead or the absent; the sight of a vacant seat at the domestic board, or in the house of God; a thousand little occurrences will at first daily touch some secret chord, and bring a gush of uncontrollable sorrow to the eyes. But time will deaden these impressions; tears will become silent and brief in their flow; the same occurrences will at last excite only a pensive sigh, and the associations will wear out, to be revived through after-life, only in moments of peculiar susceptibility. This is as it should be: it is a course of things which should be accelerated by our own efforts as much as possible. But there are too many who cling to the very associations they should endeavour to subdue, the very weaknesses they should and might conquer. They not only expose themselves to the charge of affectation, but they prolong the unhappiness of themselves and those around them; they injure the tone of their minds, and are in danger of bringing on a sickly sensibility, inconsistent with the energetic and useful exercise of the mental faculties.

They run the

risk of falling into the habit of painful reverie-of all

habits one most likely to be formed in a season of affliction, and most to be avoided, if only because it occupies the time which should be given to wholesome reflections and active duties.

In times of sorrow are we not tempted also to become selfish? We imagine, perhaps, that the heart must then become tender and generous; but let us not shrink from a close self-examination. Does not much of our grief spring from our own personal privation? If we have lost wealth, it certainly does; we lament the comforts or the influence which wealth gave to us and ours. If we mourn the death of a dear and pious friend, are we not grieving over what is indeed our privation, but what is still his emancipation, his joy, his positive gain? If we suffer from his unavoidable absence, do not many of our tears flow because we miss the pleasure his society afforded us? If our hearts ache at his misconduct, is it for him alone that they ache? Do not wounded pride, disappointed hopes, affection and esteem deprived of their support and withering sadly away, blend with many nobler causes of our anguish? and though too natural to be in themselves criminal, may they not run to such excess as to absorb all other feelings, and make our just sorrow a fruitless and selfish one? Let us then be on the watch for the first symptoms of this growing selfishness of grief. Whatever may be the peculiar nature of our trial, the common duties of life still utter their daily calls. How do we answer them?

Further, there is in some kinds of affliction, an exposure for a certain class of minds to misanthropy. Such is disappointment as to the character of those

who have been the objects of esteem and love. Of all earthly afflictions this is probably the keenest, next to the torments of a guilty conscience. And the nobler has been the basis of our regard, the higher and purer has been our attachment, so much the more trying will be the moment when we discover it must all be trampled under foot. To find the character of seeming excellence, the beautiful object on which we had riveted our attention with growing delight, fancying that it developed new brightness as we gazed, suddenly melting away before our tear-dimmed eyes, only leaving a dark heap of imperfections, perhaps sins, for the world to scorn and for us to weep over, may indeed sicken the heart, and make us for the moment distrurst all human excellence. But misanthropy never yet struck root in a well-regulated and pious mind. It is at open variance with some of the best feelings implanted in our nature; and God who gave them to us did not mean that any trial he might afterwards send should blight those feelings.

There is moreover in sorrow a temptation to become weary of life. The effect is however different on different characters. There is a weariness of lifethat springs from an unresigned, murmuring spirit; from a wilful proneness to look at the dark side of things; from ignorance or carelessness of those responsibilities which the gift of life brought with it; from a strange forgetfulness of the solemn nature of death and the judgment that follows death; from an impatience of the trials and troubles of earth, rather than from a longing for the purity and peace of heaven. Such a weariness the thoughtless, even the wicked, may feel; those whose hearts we