How deplorable-how hopelessly wretched would the condition of man be in this vale of tears, if bereft of the cheering anticipations which the gospel of Jesus can inspire. He feels that, day by day, he is verging to the grave-that soon the frail tenement of humanity will crumble into its original elementsthat the glorious sun will shine on him no more, and that he must lie down in the place of darkness and silence. All the delights that charm and gladden him here, will soon fade and pass away before his darkened vision, and he must bid a final farewell to the dear companions of his earthly pilgrimage. While indulging in this train of melancholy reflections, he may be disposed to adopt the language of Henry Kirk White, so accordant with his own feelings. "Fifty years, and who will think of Henry? I shall sink as sinks the traveller in the crowded streets of busy London. Some short bustles caused, a few inquiries, and the crowd close in, and all's forgotten."

Now, under such a terrible revolution of nature-such a sundering of near and dear connections such an oblivion of all that is bright and beautiful in the world within and the world without, what but the sure and certain hope of surviving the wreck and ruin of all terrestrial things, and entering upon a state of perfect and uninterrupted beatitude, where death and the curse are known no more, can calm the troubled spirit, and give the weary rest.

The gospel not only teaches us that we shall live again after death, but permits us to indulge the pleasing hope of reunion with the loved and lost of earth. Who can go down to the silent chambers of the grave, without distraction at the thought of being separated forever from the companions of our earthly pilgrimage?

"They have not perished-no,

Kind words, remembered voices, once so sweet,

Smiles radiant long ago,

And features, the great soul's apparent seat,

All shall come back-each tie

Of pure affection shall be knit again."

SERMON DCXXIV.

BY REV. WILLIAM WHITTAKER,

PLAINFIELD, N. J.

RECOGNITION.

"For what is our hope, or joy, or crown of rejoicing? Are not even ye in the presence of our Lord Jesus Christ at his coming?"-1 THESS. ii. 19.

"I must confess," says the sainted Baxter," as the experience of my own soul, that the expectation of loving my friends in heaven, principally kindles my love to them while on earth. If I thought I should never know them, and consequently never love them after this life is ended, I should number them with temporal things, and love them as such; but I now delightfully converse with my pious friends in a firm persuasion that I shall converse with them forever, and I take comfort in those that are dead, or absent, believing that I shall shortly meet them in heaven, and love them with a heavenly love." Such have been the sentiments and feelings of the vast majority of Christians in every portion and period of the world, and they are in perfect harmony with the teachings of revelation, and the deductions of sound philosophy.

And why should we not indulge "the pleasing hope, the fond desire" of renewing in another and a better world, the fellowship of kindred hearts which has been so suddenly interrupted by the stern mandate of death. Why should we not meet and commune with those pure and holy beings, with whom we have taken sweet counsel, as we have walked together through the checkered lanes of life's weary pilgrimage to the city of habitation? Friendship, pure, warm, disinterested, and founded on religious principles, is not a flower of earth, frail as it is beautiful, which rises up before us like an oasis in the desert, to refresh and gladden our fainting spirits, and then leaves us to mourn over its faded loveliness in all the bitterness of disappointed hope. No, it is a plant of heavenly origin, and, though frequently made to bend before the blasts and storms of this uncongenial clime, yet when transplanted into the paradise above, where there" is purer air, a softer sky, and a never-setting sun,' it will put forth more vigorous and healthy shoots, and flourish in immortal youth and beauty. Shall this reasonable expectation, then, of meeting once more with the loved and lost of earth, prove a delusion-the creature of an unbridled fancy, and an over heated imagination? Shall the longing desire of the disconsolate widow, and the helpless orphan, to look once more upon

the husband and the father, never be gratified? Why, then, is it implanted in the breast of the bereaved and suffering children of humanity? We ask, would a being of infinite wisdom and love present this heavenly cordial to the fainting spirits and quivering lips of his dear children in this vale of tears; just let them taste its blessedness, and then, with cruel hand, dash it to the ground? This can never be the conduct of him whose nature and whose name is love-his goodness, his wisdom, his justice and his truth, all stand pledged to grant the reasonable desires of his own children.

How far our future blessedness will depend on the knowledge and society of our Christian friends, it is impossible for us to determine; but we may reasonably suppose that it will be greatly augmented by the holy fellowship and converse of those kindred spirits, in whose presence we delighted to dwell, and by whose side we loved to linger in this vale of tears. There are several portions of the word of God which seem to throw light on this subject, and which may aid us in our investigations. The Church triumphant is frequently described under the beautiful simile of a family, and it is one which awakens in the breast the tenderest feelings, and calls forth the loveliest and sweetest reminiscences. In a Christian family there is uninterrupted intercourse-mutual affection, a congeniality of taste and sentiment, and personal knowledge. Without acquaintance, there can be no friendship; and as this principle will be carried to the highest possible state of perfection in the world to come, it would seem absolutely necessary that we should have a clear perception, and a perfect knowledge of the persons of those with whom it shall be our happiness to associate forever. Is not this what Paul meant when he addressed our text to his Thessalonian converts: "For what is hope, or joy, or crown of rejoicing? Are not even ye in the presence of our Lord Jesus Christ at his coming?"

That Christian relatives and friends shall distinctly remember in the eternal world those whom they have left behind, may be fairly inferred from the language that passed between Abraham and Dives. It is plainly evident from this parable, that the departed do not forget the living, nor yet the past events of their own personal history. "But Abraham said, Son, remember that thou in thy lifetime receivedst thy good things, and likewise Lazarus evil things; but now he is comforted and thou art tormented. Then he said, I pray thee, therefore, father, that thou wouldest sent him to my father's house. For I have five brethren; that he may testify unto them, lest they also come into this place of torment."

That saints shall derive pleasure from meeting together in heaven, may be determined by a reference to several passages of Scripture. The meeting of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, and all

the prophets in the kingdom of God, and Lazarus reposing in the bosom of the "father of the faithful," affords not only the pleasing hope that we shall know each other hereafter, but that this knowledge will tend to augment our felicity. Of the patriarchs, it is said "they were gathered unto their people." Now, by this expression, it could not be meant the gathering of their bodies to those of their kindred, for in this sense, neither Abraham nor Isaac were gathered unto their people. The former was buried in the cave of Machpelah in Canaan, while his kindred were interred either in Ur of the Chaldees, or in Haran, and the latter was buried with none of his friends, except his parents. The meaning, therefore, is, that their immortal spirits were gathered to the "general assembly and Church of the first born," to the congregation of the blessed in the celestial paradise. That we shall recognise our Christian friends in heaven, receives additional confirmation from the language of our Saviour to the penitent malefactor. "To-day shalt thou be with me in paradise;" and if so, we may reasonably conclude that they would know each other, and that this knowledge would afford unspeakable happiness to the ransomed spirit of the dying thief.

The idea of meeting again our departed Christian friends after death, seems to be instinctive in the human soul, and inseparable from its very constitution. The desire is so strong-so natural, so innocent, so intimately connected with our highest and holiest feelings, and binds us so closely with invisible and eternal realities, that it cannot be sinful to entertain and cherish it. Under the influence of this delightful anticipation, how many of the loved and lost seem to revive in our recollection; we see them again, not agonized with pain, and wasting away under the consuming power of disease-not cold and motionless, and clad in the vestments of the grave, but clothed with spiritual, incorruptible and glorious bodies, "like unto the angels of God," having thrown off the dishonors of the tomb, and "emerged into life, day light and liberty." How many voices long since hushed in death, now speak to us in tones of celestial sweetness, bidding us not to sorrow as those without hope for them who have fallen asleep in Jesus." How precious to the worn and wearied spirit of the Christian pilgrim is this hope of reunion in the land of the blest. It rolls away the dark clouds of sorrow which gather around the soul, and fills it with joy and peace through believing. It enables the afflicted believer to look beyond the Jordan of death to those bright mansions in the skies, where dwell the "pure in heart," and to say with the Christian poet"I feel that, however long to me

The slumber of the grave may be,

I shall know them again 'mid the countless throng,
Who shall bear their part in the Seraphim's song."

The Roman orator, Cicero, gives utterance to sentiments, on

this pleasing subject, which will be cordially adopted by every child of God. "For my part, I feel myself transported with the desire of seeing my departed friends, whose characters I respected, and whose persons I loved. Bent on my journey to them, I would not be recalled by the promise of restored youth. Oh! glorious day, when I shall leave the tumult and corruption of the world, and join the society and council of divine minds! Of all that have left the world before me, I weep for Cato the most. His soul, however, did not desert me, but still looked back upon me in its flight to those happy mansions, to which he was assured I should one day follow him. And if I seemed to bear his death with fortitude, it was because I supported myself under the consoling reflection, that we could not long be separated." Is not this what the apostle meant, when, addressing in the text the Thessalonian converts, he said: "For what is our hope, or joy, or crown of rejoicing? Are not even ye in the presence of our Lord Jesus Christ at His coming?" Did he not endeavor to afford consolation to the sorrowing and bereaved, by the assurance that, "those who sleep in Jesus shall God bring with him, and so shall they be ever with the Lord. We shall live together with him." And why should we not indulge this pleasing hope this fond desire?

Though it may not be plainly and expressly made known in the word of God, yet it is deducible from the very nature of future blessedness, which is a state of infinite perfection and bliss. If memory shall not be defective; if knowledge shall be progressive in heaven, then the dearest ties which we formed on earth, will not, cannot, be buried in everlasting forgetfulness. A lovely and precious child once lost her mother at an age too early to fix the loved features in her remembrance. She was as frail as beautiful, and soon faded away. She would lie upon the lap of the friend who took a mother's care of her, and winding one wasted arm about her neck, would say: "Now tell me about my dear mamma." And when the oft-told tale had been repeated, she would softly say, "Take me into the parlor; I want to see my mother," and would lie for hours contentedly gazing on her portrait. At last, the trying hour came; the dew of death was already on the flower, as its life sun was going down. All at once a brightness, as if from the upper world, burst over the child's colorless countenance-the eyelids flashed open, the lips parted, and she looked piercingly into the far above. "Mother!" she cried, with transport in her tone, and passed with a sweet smile into her mother's bosom.

Perhaps there is nothing on earth that affords greater joy than the reunion of dearly beloved friends, after a long and painful separation. I will not attempt to describe the feelings of the fond mother, who has been compelled to mourn over the absence of her only son, while far away upon the tempestuous