XXI UNREASONABLE EXPECTATIONS Then I said, I shall die in my nest.-Job 29: 18. T HAT we should begin life with fair expectations, and cherish such expectations throughout, is quite in keeping with the genius of true religion. Pessimism holds that those responsible for the education of youth should be careful to chasten the imagination of their pupils, and teach them to entertain few hopes and faint. The pessimist has formed a low estimate of human life, and the sinister beatitude that he would instil into the sanguine mind is, "Blessed are they that expect nothing, for they shall not be disappointed." This is not the beatitude of the godly. Their portion is not of this world, but they are free to expect a fair share of it; they must regulate expectance, not extinguish it. Our anticipations may wax extravagant, and issue in unnecessary pain. The text supplies an instance of such immoderation: "Then I said, I shall die in my nest. My root is spread out to the waters, and the dew lieth all night upon my branch: my glory is fresh in me, and my bow is renewed in my hand." This rare condition of things the patriarch counted upon as secure; he promised himself its indefinite continuance. "But now." A change passed over his pleasant dream; the soft nest was wrecked, and he became chased by the stormy wind and tempest. What right have we to reckon upon securing a silken nest in the flowering trees? Or, if God grant us exceptional prosperity, what right have we to expect that the times of our wealth are going to fill all our days, and that we shall die in the privileged nest? Think of what this world is to the million. How few realize robust health, ample fortune, brilliant laurels, or anything approaching complete personal and domestic felicity! If some attain to circumstances of exceptional advantage, are not their glory and felicity pathetically precarious? Sickness, loss, sorrow, and bereavement occupy a large place in human life; therefore it is wise to be prepared for our share: and if God gives us special honors and felicities, we must not forget how soon they may vanish. It is pleasant to remember that "from Marah to Elim is only a morning's march"; but the converse is true also, that it is only a morning's march from Elim to Marah. As Charles Reade puts it: "It is terrible how quickly a human landscape, all gilded meadow, silver river, and blue sky, can cloud and darken." Can we coax the nightingale or swal low to tarry? Can we transform the rose-bush into an evergreen? Can we fix the rainbow? Can we charm the purple butterfly to stay the year round? Never. Nor can we be sure of earth's rarest things for a day. Unreasonable expectations make hardships more intolerable when they do come. If our imagination broods largely on delightful things and rosy scenes, even the moderate trial that may happen to us is acutely felt. The inhabitants of the south of France, familiar only with flowers and sunshine, and expecting nothing else, make more fuss over a slight snow-shower than the people of Siberia do about all their avalanches and glaciers. It is manifest that Job's unreasonable hope of always retaining his nest made his adversity specially bitter. "But now." How deep that sigh! Unreasonable expectations tend to deprive even continued and enhanced prosperity of its charm. When prosperity becomes only a matter of course, it is reduced to a commonplace; whilst a godly man with reasonable hopes and a thankful heart stands prepared for delightful surprises. Another danger in connection with these exaggerated expectations is that they tend to make us careless concerning watchfulness and preparations which are essential in this changeful world. Reckoning only on blue skies and sunny seas, we set sail without buoys, belts, and lifeboats. "I shall die in my nest." It is not at all unlikely that he would have died in it in a sad sense had it not been broken up. Souls often die in comfortable nests long undisturbed. God broke up the downy repose that the wings might mount into skies beyond. I do not know that birds sing much on their nests; and Job, so far as we are told, did no singing in the summer of his greatness but how the poetry flowed forth when the hurricane had dashed against his nest and carried away its soft feathers! So God compasses our salvation. "No nestling, no nestling on this side of Jordan. Heaven is the believer's only resting-place," cried Whitefield, when his friends besought him to abandon field-preaching and to take things quietly. XXII ANÆMIC VIRTUE But as for me, my feet were almost gone; my steps had well nigh slipped.-Ps. 73: 2. Nigh unto a curse.-Heb. 6:8. Stablish the things Rev. 3: 2. O which were ready to die. UR virtues are often miserably limp and bloodless, and altogether unlike the majestic characters of living righteousness. Faith suffers so severely from cataract that her lenses become opaque and unclear, and she has to grope her way like the blind. Hope shakes like a reed, when she ought to stand as firm as an anchor. Charity is so infirm that she gets her hand into her pocket with extreme difficulty, and when she has succeeded cannot pull it out again. Sobriety is so rickety that an alcoholic whiff might lay it in the gutter. Patience is a whimpering invalid. Temper is ticklish and uncertain, being enervated by chronic inflammation. And all the rest of the virtues are flaccid, nerveless, palsied, and crippled. Our decrepit graces so nearly resemble the opposite vices that they are mistaken for them by our friends, and such is |