itual apprehension? For natural sensibility is but little trustworthy. Easily moved by such musings, it is easily composed-violent emotion and frivolous apathy being the extremes between which it vacillates and vibrates. To carry and command its sympathies for the moment is an insignificant and unworthy triumph. But faith finds matter of deeper and more lasting impression here. Death is the great divider; it severs families and cuts friendships asunder-breaking closest ties, and causing the most compact associations to fall to pieces. Coming as it does upon the race of men, one by one-singling out individually, one after another, its successive prey-it resolves each hill or mountain into its constituent grains, taking separate account of every one of them, as separately it draws them into its own insatiable jaws. But death is the great uniter, too: separating for a time, it brings all together at last. The churchyard opens its graves to part dearest brethren and friends; but soon it opens them again, to mix their kindred ashes in one common dust.

Is the union, however, that death occasions, real, substantial, enduring?

Joseph died, and all his brethren, and all that generation." Death passed upon them all, for they all had sinned. It is the common lot-the general history-the universal characteristic.

And there is another common lot-another general history-another universal characteristic: "After death, the judgment." Joseph rises again, and all his brethren, and all that generation; and they all stand before the judgment-seat. There is union then: the small and the great are there the servant and his master-all are brought together; but for what? And for how long? "The wicked shall go away into everlasting punishment, but the righteous into life eternal."

What a solemn contrast have we here! Death unites after separation; the judgment unites in order to separate. Death, closing the drama of time, lets the curtain fall upon its whole scenery and all its actors; the judgment, opening the drama of eternity, discloses scenery and actors once more entire. All die; all are judged. The two events happen alike to all. And both are near; for the time is short-the

Lord is at hand.

But before death, before the judgment, is the gospel freely preached to all; and a voice is heard: "Behold, I stand at the door and knock; if any man open unto me, I will come in unto him, and sup with him, and he with me." Let this feast of love be begun in heart after heart, as one by one, sinners die with Christ unto sin, and live with him unto God. And when individuals, families, generations, are separated, and united, to be separated again, may it be our privilege to meet at the marriage-supper of the Lamb, beyond which there is no parting any more forever.

DISCOURSE LI.

JAMES HAMILTON, D.D., F.L.S.

THE "Moore of the Pulpit," as Dr. Hamilton has been called, was born about the year 1810, at Strathaven, Scotland, where his father was parish clergyman, and a man of considerable distinction. He was graduated at the University of Glasgow in the year 1829, and has now been pastor of the National Scotch Church, Regent's Square, London, some twelve or fifteen years. Dr. Hamilton is widely known in this country, as well as beyond the Atlantic, from his excellent and popular works; such as "Life in Earnest;" "Harp on the Willows;" "Happy Home;" "Life of Lady Colquhoun;" "Mount of Olives;" "The Royal Preacher," etc. He is besides possessed of remarkable pulpit talents, which attract many to his ministry. We copy the remarks of a frequent hearer:

"He is the most poetical of preachers. Like the person described in Hudibras,

He possesses a vivid imagination, a brilliant fancy, and a sparkling phraseology. His sentences are strings of pearls, and whatever subject he touches, he invariably adorns. His affluence of imagery is surprising. To illustrate some particular Scripture, he will lay science, art, and natural history under contribution. But plenteous as are the flowers of eloquence, their sweetness does not cloy. And withal, a spirit of earnest piety pervades the discourse. There is one drawback-the broad Scotch accent in which it is delivered."

Some of his views of preaching are brought out in the Introduction to his "Life in Earnest:" "For the directness of the style and the plainness of the illustrations, I do not apologize. They are not more a natural propensity than the result of conscientious conviction; for as I can not be persuaded that, in matters of taste, any thing is eloquent which does not answer the end in view, nor that in theology any thing is sublime which is not scriptural; so I can not think that, in preaching, any thing is out of place which puts the truth in its proper placein the memory and the hearts of the hearers-nor that any thing is mean which can trace its pedigree back to the Mount of Beatitudes."

The sermon which is here given will commend itself as justifying, in some measure, the high award of merit assigned to the preacher's abilities. We are sorry to add, that Dr. Hamilton has been for some time in ill health; and that his constitution, at best not firm, seems of late somewhat broken.

THE PARTING PROMISE, AND THE PRESENT SAVIOUR.

"

And, lo, I am with you always, even to the end of the world."-MATT., xxviii. 20. THERE are some plants which grow right up-erect in their own sturdy self-sufficiency; and there are some feeble ones which take hold with their hands and clasp and climb. The soul of man is like these last. Even in his best estate he was not meant to grow insulated and stand alone. He is not strong enough for that. He has not within himself resources sufficient to fill himself. He is not fit to be his own all-inall. The make of his mind is an out-going, exploring, petitionary make. The soul of man is a clasping, clinging soul, seeking to something over which it can spread itself, and by means of which it can support itself. And just as in a neglected garden you may see the poor creepers making shift to sustain themselves as best they can; one convolvolus twisting round another, and both draggling on the ground; a clematis leaning on the door which will by and by open and let the whole mass fall down; a vine or a passion-flower wreathing round a prop which all the while is poisoning it; so in this fallen world it is mournful to see the efforts which human souls are making to get some efficient object to lean upon and twine around. One clasps a glistening prop, and it poisons him. The love of money blasts his soul, and it hangs round its self-chosen stay a blighted, withered thing. Another spreads himself more amply over a broad surface of creature comfort-a snug dwelling, and a well-furnished library, and a pleasant neighborhood, with the command of every thing that heart can wish, and a steady income-but death opens the door, and, with nothing but vacancy to lean upon, he falls over on the other side all helpless and dejected. And a still greater number, groping about along the road, clutch to one another, and intertwine their tendrils mutually, and by forming friendships and congenial intimacies, and close relations, try to satisfy their leaning loving nature in this way. But it answers little end. The make of man's soul is upward, and one climber can not lift another off the ground. And the growth of man's soul is luxuriant, and that growth inust be stifled, checked, and scanty, if he have no larger space over which to diffuse his aspirations, his affections, and his efforts, than the surface of a fellow-creature's soul. But, weedy as this world-garden is, the Tree of Life still grows in the midst of it-erect in his own omnipotent self-sufficiency, and inviting every weary straggling soul to lay hold of his everlasting strength, and expatiate upward along the infinite ramifications of his endless excellences and all-inviting love.

God has formed the soul of man of a leaning, dependent make; and for the healthy growth and joyful development of that soul, it is essential that he should have some object far higher and nobler than himself to

dispread his desires and delights upon. That object is revealed in the gospel. That object is Immanuel. His divinity is the almighty propable to sustain the adhering soul, so that it shall never perish nor come into condemnation-the omnipotent support which bears the clinging spirit loftily and securely, so that the whirling temptations which vex it can not rend it from the tree of life, and that the muddy plash, which soils and beats into the earth its sprawling neighbors, can not tarnish the verdant serenity and limpid glories of its flowering head. And just as his divine strength is the omnipotent prop of the adhering soul, so his divine resources and his human sympathy make him the all-sufficient object, over which each emotion and each desire of regenerate humanity may boundlessly diffuse itself. And however delicate your feelings, however eager your affections, and however multitudinous the necessities of your intricate nature, there is that in this heavenly friend which meets them every one. There are in his unimaginable compassions, and in his benignant fellow-feelings, holds sufficient for every craving tendril and every eager clasper of the human heart, to fix upon and wreath around.

This is what the gospel does. It just offers you a friend, who can both save and satisfy your soul. Jesus, the Son of God, God manifest in flesh, Immanuel, the gospel offers this friend to you-not more tender than he is holy, not more divine than he is human. Instead of clutching to props which can not elevate you, or if they do bear you up for a moment, must soon be withdrawn again-the gospel bids you grow against the tree of life, and just as you grow up into Christ, you will grow up into holiness and into happiness. And if you have not yet found an object to your heart's content-if you feel that there is still something wrong with you -that you are neither leading the life which you would like to lead, nor enjoying the comfort which you think might be somehow got; be advised. Take the Lord Jesus for your friend. He is one in whom you will find no flaw. He is one in whom-if you really get acquainted with him-you will never weary; and one, who, if once you really go to him, will never weary of you. He is a friend of whom no one had ever reason to complain-a friend who has done so much for you already, that he would have done enough even though he were never to do any more; who is so generous, that his thoughts are all occupied with the great things he designs to do-a friend who is singularly kind and considerate, for "he sticketh closer than a brother"—a friend who does not vary, "for he is the same yesterday, to-day, and forever"—and, best of all, a friend who is never far away, for "lo, I am with you alway."

My dear friends-there are many reasons why men do not love the Lord Jesus. Some feel no need of him. They understand that he is a Saviour; but a Saviour is what they do not desire. Others have no congeniality with him. They understand that his character is divine-that his love of holiness is as intense as his hatred of iniquity-and as they

love the world, and love their own way, and love the pleasures of sin, they can not love the Lord Jesus. But the hearts of some toward Christ are cold for other reasons. Their conceptions regarding him are sufficiently vague and dim; but so far as they can be reduced to any thing definite, we might say that they do not love the Lord Jesus, because they habitually think of him as a dead Saviour, or a Saviour different from what he was, or a distant Saviour-a Saviour far away.

I. Some look on the Lord Jesus as dead. They read his history as of one who lived long ago, but who is not living now. They read Matthew's narrative, or John's, and they are interested-for the moment moved. They feel that these words are very beautiful-that this stroke of kindness or tenderness was very touching-that that interposition was very surprising. They feel that the whole history of Jesus of Nazareth is very affecting; and, just as they may have wept at the death of Socrates, or when they read the martyrdom of the saints at Lyons, so they may have felt for him who had not the fox's hole-they may have wept when they saw the son of Mary hanging on the tree. And, if they were visiting Palestine, they might linger over many a silent spot with a solemn impression. "Is this the grassy mount where he preached that sermon? Yon lake, rippling round its pebbly margin, is it the one he so often crossed? And are these the very rocks which echoed the strong crying of his midnight prayers?" But there they feel as if it ended. They look on it all as a tale that is past. They take for granted that it all closed on Calvary-that the cross was the conclusion of that life-the most wonderful life that the world ever saw-but still its conclusion. To them Christ is dead, not living; and therefore no wonder that they do not love him. You may revere the character of those long ago departed; but love is an affection reserved for the living. You will only love the Lord Jesus when you come to believe in him as the living Saviour-one who was once dead, but who, once dead, dieth no more. Jesus lives. He was not more alive when he sat at Jacob's well than he is alive at this moment. He was not more alive when he poured the water into the basin and washed their feet-not more alive when he took the cup and made a beginning of the remembrance-feast-not more alive when he rose from table and sang the parting hymn, and went out among them to the Mount of Olives, than he is living now. The Lord Jesus lives. He is alive for evermore.

II. Some do not love the Lord Jesus because they look on him as an altered Saviour as different now from what he once was. Earthly friends are apt to change, and if they do not change, they die. When a visitor comes from a foreign land where you once sojourned, you ask eagerly about the different acquaintances you once had there. "And did you see such a one?" "Yes; but you would not know him, he is so greatly altered." "Did he remember me?" "Well, I rather think he was asking for you, but I can not be very sure. He has got other