you remember, that of this mighty debt you have hitherto lived regardless? How will you then abhor that pursuit of selfish pleasure which has hitherto alienated your mind from all that best deserves your care,--blasted the very sense by which you should have perceived the excellence of your benefactor,--diverted your regards from the deeper and deeper death which is palsying your soul; and closed your ear against the renovating voice which calls you to arise and live? This voice, once heard, would exalt your confiding temper to the elevations of faith,--ennoble your careless generosity to the self-devotion of saints and martyrs,--your warmth of affection, now squandered on the meanest of objects, to the love of God. The true religion once received, would change the whole current of your hopes and fears;--would ennoble your desires, subdue passion, humble the proud heart, overcome the world. But you will not give her whereon to plant her foot; for where, amidst the multitude of your toys, shall religion find a place? Oh, why should we, by continual sacrifice, confirm our natural idolatry of created things? Why fill, with the veriest baubles of this unsubstantial scene, hearts already too much inclined to exclude their rightful possessor? The pursuit of selfish pleasure is indeed natural, for self is the idol of fallen man; but the great end of his present state of being is to prostrate that idol before the Supreme. The stony Dagon bows unwillingly, but bow he must. Our heavenly Father, though a merciful, is not a fond or partial parent; and the same lot is more or less the portion of us all. He has freely given. He has done more; he has warned us of the real uses of his gifts. Perverse by nature, we abuse his bounty. Again, he exhorts us by the ministry of his servants; and often graciously sweetens his warnings, by conveying them in the voice of partial friendship, or parental love. We reject counsel; and the father unwillingly chastises. He withdraws the gifts which we have perverted, or suffers them to become themselves the punishment of their own abuse. If kindness cannot touch, nor exhortation move, nor warning alarm, nor chastisement reclaim, what other means can be employed with a moral being: What remains but the fearful sentence, "He is joined to his idols; let him alone." Oh, Ellen, my blood freezes at the thought that such a sentence may ever go forth against you. Rouse you, dear child of my love,--rouse you from your ill-boding security. Tremble, lest you already approach that state where mercy itself assumes the form of punishment. You have hitherto lived to yourself alone. Now venture to examine this god of your idolatry;--for the being whose pleasure and whose honour you seek, is your god, call it by what name you will.