am I thinking of the weak, though well-meaning lady, who devotes herself in succession to a great variety of uneducated and unqualified religious instructors; who tells you one week how she has joined the flock of Mr. A., the converted prize-fighter, and how she regards him as by far the most improving preacher she ever heard; and who tells you the next week that she has seen through the prize-fighter, that he has gone and married a wealthy Roman Catholic, and that now she has resolved to wait on the ministry of Mr. B., an enthusiastic individual who makes shoes during the week and gives sermons on Sundays, and in whose addresses she finds exactly what suits her.  I speak of the better feelings and purposes of wiser, if not better folk.  Let me think here of pious emotions and holy resolutions, of the best and purest frames of heart and mind.  Oh, if we could all always remain at our best!  And after all, permanence is the great test.  In the matter of Christian faith and feeling, in the matter of all our worthier principles and purposes, that which lasts longest is best.  This, indeed, is true of most things.  The worth of anything depends much upon its durability,—­upon the wear that is in it.  A thing that is merely a fine flash and over only disappoints.  The highest authority has recognized this.  You remember Who said to his friends, before leaving them, that He would have them bring forth fruit, and much fruit.  But not even that was enough.  The fairest profession for a time, the most earnest labour for a time, the most ardent affection for a time, would not suffice.  And so the Redeemer’s words were,—­’I have chosen you, and ordained you, that ye should go and bring forth fruit, and that your fruit should remain.’  Well, let us trust, that, in the most solemn of all respects, only progress shall be brought to us by all the changes of Future Years.’

But it is quite vain to think that feelings, as distinguished from principles, shall not lose much of their vividness, freshness, and depth, as time goes on.  You cannot now by any effort revive the exultation you felt at some unexpected great success, nor the heart-sinking of some terrible loss or trial.  You know how women, after the death of a child, determine that every day, as long as they live, they will visit the little grave.  And they do so for a time, sometimes for a long time; but they gradually leave off.  You know how burying-places are very trimly and carefully kept at first, and how flowers are hung upon the stone; but these things gradually cease.  You know how many husbands and wives, after their partner’s death, determine to give the remainder of life to the memory of the departed, and would regard with sincere horror the suggestion that it was possible they should ever marry again; but after a while they do.  And you will even find men, beyond middle age, who made a tremendous work at their first wife’s death, and wore very conspicuous mourning, who in a very few months may