es them; we become harsh, imperious to our inferiors, lofty and exacting with our equals; without compassion towards the unfortunate. Soon does he, whom fortune has always favored, persuade himself that it has no longer the power to abandon him; that he is himself the arbiter of his lot: he no longer thinks that his life, his talents, his happiness, his all comes to him from God; that on him he depends for every thing. In this infatuation, swollen with pride, he casts around him his disdainful eyes, and exclaims, "I am alone; there is none but me on the earth;" and, in the spirit of Nebuchadnezzar, "Is not this the great Babylon, which I have built by my power, for my royal abode ?" and, in the spirit of Alexander, dazzled with his success, forgets that he is a man; forgets even God himself.

What can recall him from this intoxication? Nothing but the blows of adversity can work this miracle. God thunders from the highest heavens, "Cut

down the tree; scatter its fruit; disperse its foliage." Against this man, "Let him be deprived of those riches which have inflated his heart;"-against another, "Let calumny blacken his reputation, he has been greedy of honor;"-against a third, "Let him be cast in disgrace from that dignity to which his ambition had caused him to ascend." O God of judgment! how terrible, yet how salutary are thy inflictions! They scatter, as by enchantment, those mists of vanity with which the proud man had been bewildered; they destroy that scaffolding of ambitious projects that he had constructed. Then he renounces those vain grandeurs which were the aliment of his pride and arrogance; he learns to be modest towards his fellow-creatures, compassionate to the unfortunate. He sees himself as he is, poor, wretched, and naked; he acknowledges that all his talents, his qualities, his advantages, all that he has, come from God, and he humbles himself under his powerful hand. It is thus that

the blows of Providence, which take from us the objects of our affections, destroy our pride.

They do still more; they detach our hearts from earth, and direct them to heaven. What a multitude of good things have been shed on our abode! How is every thing arranged for the happiness of the beings who dwell here! Objects which flatter our senses; beauties which gladden our imaginations; above all, sentiments which transport our souls -the sublime exertions of generosity, of virtue the sweet affections of friendship, of humanity, of patriotism-all unite to render us happy, and attach us to this world. Yet it is not our country; it is only a place of passage, only a vestibule to lead us to our true dwelling. For what is it destined? Not to engross our affections; but to instruct us, to prepare our souls for enjoyments of a nobler order, to render them fit for a purer happiness. If, however, it is so magnificent, what must be the beauties of the home

to which we tend; what must be the joys which are in reserve for us; what must be the transports which are prepared for our hearts in that place of perfection where God himself dwells? But we think not of it, we forget it; yes, that world of felicity, the road to which Jesus has marked and trod, which God offers as the recompense of virtue, and the conquest of which ought to be the great end of our life, excites but feebly our desires, and kindles but slightly our ambition. The flowers that we meet in the road of life cause us to lose sight of this grand object: dazzled by brilliant trifles, we retard our progress towards solid good; we say with Peter, "It is good for us to be here; let us make ourselves tents;" we grow attached to earth; the idea of leaving it fills us with alarm. Fools that we are! such is our love for this world, that we should be satisfied never to leave it; that we should consent to exchange what is every thing for what is nothing; that ocean of felicity for a few pleasures of little value!

But God, who sees our blindness, pities us; mingles bitterness with the sweets of this life; takes from us the coveted good, when we are on the point of seizing itthe objects of our affections, in the moment when we think our possession sure. This man had placed his heart on riches; God snatches them away: another, on a beloved child; God smites it in its father's embrace. One lived only for friendship-lived by the attachment of those to whom he was ever doing good; and God allows his reward to be treachery and ingratitude. Another longed for glory; instead he gives him disgrace. Under these blows the soul is broken down; for a time it is unable to recover from its griefs; it feels an immense void; a deep melancholy consumes it; on every side it searches for consolation; finding none, it turns upon itself. What terrible blows have struck my heart! the Christian exclaims: how gloomy this world appears! What folly to fix my heart upon it! It is filled only with unreal objects. I stretch