of happiness and the summit of wisdom_. Without this knowledge, all human science is imperfect; and all earthly opulence abject penury. You have few wants, or none, perhaps, for your body; but, while opulence pours her favors around you with a luxurious hand, you may be an utter stranger to the more substantial blessings of the grace of God. O sirs, consider this seriously before it be too late. Though your lives should glide along with ever so smooth and placid a stream, yet remember, the boundless ocean of eternity is just before you; and you may find _that_, a more turbid sea than you expect. And I am certain you will, if the love of the world be not previously expelled your hearts, to make room for the love of Jesus. After you have passed the limits of time and the confines of death, it will be too late to say, the world is a cheat, I thought so once, but now I know it. Experience then will be hell. 3. But may not the votary of pleasure put in his claim to happiness, without having his principles examined, or his dissipation interrupted by rigid inquiries? No. “She that liveth in pleasure is dead while she liveth.” It is an act of charity to arrest levity in a career that deprives of all seriousness, and unfits for another world; and though a solemn admonition may be unwelcome at first, it may be admitted as a salutary visitant in the end. I will suppose you then possessed of every advantage, which youth, health, and fortune, can give; while, perhaps, your education and natural temper render you an object of envy to all around you. Your time flies imperceptibly along in the gay world; and diversified scenes of amusement, in concurrence with constitutional vivacity, give you the appearance of felicity in the very abstract. Happiness is the object of your pursuit, and pleasure the way, which you think must lead to it. But are you what you seem? Or have you attained what you have been seeking? Is there not an emptiness in your enjoyments, which you are made sometimes deeply to feel? Nay, do they not often leave a sting in the heart, which the constant succession of them, so far from extracting, only makes more impoisoned? Is there no solemn moment, wherein conscience doth loudly cry, “You are not happy?” And can all your dissipation keep you from low spirits, when death stares you in the face, and secret misgivings make you dread his approach? You want something still, and that cruel something unpossessed, mars all your gaiety. You want Christ. You lack the knowledge and love of that divine personage; and in wanting him, you want every thing—wisdom, righteousness, holiness, heaven. You must be born from above by the spirit of God. Your heart must be renewed, and the corruptions of pride and discontent, of formality and self-righteousness, which are lodged in it, must be conquered by the grace of God. And, until that great change takes place, you must and would be miserable upon a throne, and discontented even in