the sentiment of duty, it is near its dissolution; and it never thrives or comes to good but when it rests upon well-tried trust and hearty regard; upon a love to our persons, and a confidence in our worth. And in the ties of nature, to parents, to children, to brethren, to husband and wife, there to be listened to out of cold constraint of duty, argues nature gone well nigh dead. There is a prompter consent, a deep sympathy of love, an over-stepping of all the limits of duty, a going even unto the death, which hardly satisfies the soul of such affection. What then shall we say of that closest of all relations-creature to Creator -which hath-in it the germ of every other: the parental, for he formed us; the patronal, for he hath upheld us; the friendly, for in all our straits he hath befriended us; the loyal, for our safety is in his royal hand; and, which addeth the attachment to very self, "for we are ourselves his workmanship!"

To bind this tie, nothing will suffice but strong and stubborn necessity. Duty, in truth, is the very lowest conception of it-privilege is a higher

-honour a higher, happiness and delight a higher still. But duty may be suspended by more pressing duty-privilege may be foregone and honour forgot, and the sense of happiness grow dull; but this of listening to His voice who plants the sense of duty, bestows privilege, honour and happiness, and our every other faculty, is before all these, and is equalled by nothing but the stubbornest necessity. We should hear His voice

as the sun and stars do in their courses, as the restful element of earth doth in its settled habitation. His voice is our law, which it is sacrilege, worse than rebellion, worse than parental rebellion, to disobey. He keeps the bands of our being together. His voice is the charter of our existence, which being disobeyed, we should run to annihilation, as our great father would have done, had not God in mercy given us a second chance, by erecting the platform of our being upon the new condition of probation, different from that of all known existences. Was it ever heard that the sun stopped in his path, but it was God that commanded? Was it ever heard that the sea forgot her instability, and stood apart in walled steadfastness, but it was God that commanded? Or that fire forgot to consume, but at the voice of God? Even so man should seek his Maker's word, as he loveth his well-being, or, like the unfallen creatures of God, as he loveth his very being-and labour in his obedience, without knowing or wishing to know aught beyond.

Necessity, therefore, I say, strong and eternal necessity is that which joins the link between the creature and the Creator, and makes man incumbent to the voice of God. To read the Word is no ordinary duty, but the mother of all duty, enlightening the eyes and converting the soul, and creating that very conscience to which we would subject it. We take our meat not by duty-the body must go down to dust without

it-therefore we persevere, because we love to exist. So also the word of God is the bread of life, the good of all spiritual action, without which the soul will go down-if not to instant annihilation to the wretched abyss of spiritual and eternal death. But while we insist that the Scriptures should be perused out of the sense, not of an incumbency, but of a strong necessity, as being the issued orders of Him who upholdeth all things we except against any idea of painfulness or force being therewith connected. We say necessity, to indicate the strength of the obligation, not its disagreeableness. But, in truth, there is no such feeling of disagreeableness, but the very opposite attached to every necessity of the Lord's appointing. Light is pleasant to the eyes, though the necessary element of vision. Food is pleasant to the body, though the staple necessary of life. Air is refreshing to the frame, though the necessary element of the breathing spirit. What so refreshing as the necessary of water to all animated existence? Sleep is the very balm of life to all creatures under the Motion is from infancy to feeblest age the most recreating of things, save rest after motion. Every necessary instinct for preserving, or continuing, our existence hath in it a pleasure, when indulged in moderation; and the pain which attends excess is the sentinel in the way of danger, and like the sentinel's voice upon the brink of ruin should be considered as the pleasantest of all, though withdrawing us from the fondest pursuit. In like manner attendance on

sun.

God's law, though necessary to the soul as wine and milk to the body, will be found equally refreshing; though necessary as light to the eyes, will be found equally cheerful: though necessary as rest to the weary limbs, will be found equally refreshing to our spiritual strength.

A duty, which is at all times a duty, is a necessity and this of listening to the voice of God can at no time be dispensed with, and therefore is a stark necessity. The life of the soul can at no time proceed without the present sense and obedience of its Maker's government. His law must be present and keep concert with our most inward thoughts; from which, as we can never dissolve connexion, so ought we never to dissolve connexion with the regulating voice of God. In all our rising emotions; in all our purposes conceiving; in all our thoughtful debates, holden upon the propriety of things; in all the secret councils of the bosom-the law of God should be consentaneous with the law of Nature, or rather should be umpire of the council, seeing Nature and Nature's laws have receded from the will of God, and become blinded to the best interests of our spiritual state. The world is apt to look only to the executive part of conduct-to the outward actions, which come forth from behind the curtains: of deliberative thought; and as these have stated seasons, and are not constantly recurring, it hath come to pass that the Word of God is read and entertained, chiefly for the visible parts of life; being used as a sort of elbow-monitor to guard our conduct from offence, rather than a universal

law to impregnate all the sources of thought and action. My Brethren, doth the hand ever forget its cunning, or the tongue its many forms of speech, or the soul its various states of feeling and passion? Is there an interval, in the wakeful day, when the mind ceases to be in fluctuating motion, and is bound in rest like the frozen lake? I do not ask, is it always vexed like the troubled sea?-but, doth it ever rest from emotion and remain steadfast like the solid land? Doth not thought succeed thought, impression impression, recollection recollection, in a ceaseless and endless round? And before this pleasant agitation of vital consciousness can compose itself to rest, the eye must be sealed to light, and the ear stopped to hearing, and the body become dead to feeling, and the powers of thought and action, done out, must surrender themselves to repose. Nay, even then, under the death-like desertion of all her faculties, and the oppressive weight of sleep, the mind in her remoter chambers keeps up a fantastical disport of mimic life, as if loth for an instant to forego the pleasure she hath in conscious being. Seeing then, not even the sleep-locked avenues of sense, nor the worn-out powers of thought and action, nor slumber's soft embrace, can so lull the soul that she should for a while forget her cogitations, and join herself to dark oblivion; seeing that she keeps up the livelong day a busy play of thought, feeling and action, and during the night keeps vigils in her mysterious chambers, fighting with the powers of oblivion and inertness a battle for existence-how should she be able for any instant to do without