the four winds of heaven. Ordinarily, this change does not occur with the violence of a sudden convulsion; it comes about by the steady action of time. Parents worn out in the journey of life, sink into their graves; while surviving children, separated from each other, and having entered into new relations, become practical strangers to the scenes of their childhood. There is the homestead, and around it gather a thousand touching memories; every hill and every valley, the trees, the fences, and the road, all seem like old acquaintances; yet, where is the family, that group of beings once so tenderly associated with you in every article of this scene? Ah! my hearers, where is it? It is nowhere. It has now no existence, as it then had; it is literally gone from the face of the earth. The times have passed over it, and swept it all away. It was the thing of but a transient moment, and with the lapse of that moment, it has fled forever. To one who has any tenderness of domestic feeling-who can avoid having it?-this is a most affecting change in his social condition. Though now a man, and perhaps not wishing to be a child again, still he cannot recall the past without moralizing upon life, and feeling the glow of peculiar sentiments in his heart.

If we look beyond the family, and study our relations to others in whom we may have had some interest, perhaps a very strong one, we are brought to the same result. What a changing thing that is, which we call the circle of our acquaintance! It is always a circle, and embraces a given number of beings; yet, the persons who compose it, do not long remain the same. Familiar faces are retiring, and strange ones taking their place; old friends are stepping out, and new ones stepping in. Deaths, removals, and sometimes the unhappy misunderstandings of life, keep our social existence in the state of constant fluctuation. Not a year elapses without leaving its distinct impress; and when we put together a number of years, the effect is solemnly visible. Where are the companions of one's boyhood, those whom he loved to meet, and with whom he sported in the season of youth? Where are the associates of his riper years, those with whom he once mingled in the walks of business? What has become of the former friends and acquaintance of the man who is now threescore years and ten? Nearly all of them have disappeared; some of them are among the dead, and the others are scattered up and down the earth. Change, steady, constant, and unintermitted change, is continually passing over the face of what we call the social circle. It is always in motion. And but for our capacity to transfer our affections to new objects, and become interested in those with whom we are familiar; but for that general feeling of humanity, which agreeable contact may speedily ripen into friendship, we should suffer most seriously from this incessant variableness of our social existence.

So also the fortunes of life, as wrought out in the bosom of society, to a great extent observe the same law. Even the most successful man has . his zenith, towards which he gradually ascends; and then from which as gradually descends into the vale of years, the decrepitude of age, and finally the silence of the tomb. The skilful merchant cannot keep trading always; or the able lawyer pleading always; or the distinguished statesman always commanding a nation's ear. They will at length work themselves out; and having had their day, however prosperous or brilliant, they reach the point at which they must disappear, and give place to

others. They withdraw from the active crowd; their names cease to be mentioned, and soon their position among men, with all its bustle and importance, lies in the sepulchre of extinct humanity. And besides this natural course of events, there are in the lives of many men severe reverses-hard, trying, and disastrous crises of existence. Their calculations fail them; perhaps, supposed friends betray them; possibly their own prodigality or folly has ruined them; the times pass over them, and what they once were, they are no longer, having suffered the severest disappointment where perchance they expected the greatest success. They have occasion to learn by sore experience, that this is a very changing world, and that the fortune which smiles to-day, may withhold its smile to-morrow. One would think, that all men, by contemplating the contingencies of life, especially those terrible side fiaws to which we are constantly exposed, might become sufficiently wise to seek a higher and more lasting good than it is the province of earth to give. All temporal values are too uncertain to merit the supreme attachments of the soul. The family decays; the circle of our acquaintance is ever changing; our fortunes in life sweep through the widest variations, sometimes shocking us with volcanic power, and always advancing to a final terminus; every worldly good has its date and its doom; and shall we not, then, seek something which the hand of time cannot disturb? This would seem to be wise.

These, my brethren, are the thoughts with which I meet you on this first sabbath of the new year. The change, the constant change of body, intellect, sensibility, character, and social condition, as the years roll by us, is a theme pertinent to the hour. We surely have more to do with time, than simply to measure it. Its effects upon us form the interesting question. Let us bear in mind, that these effects do not lie mainly in striking and long remembered incidents, that occur but occasionally; they are far more dependent upon causes that never tire, too regular to be spasmodic, and often so familiar as to pass unnoticed. Our own continued existence forms the unbroken line, along which these causes accumulate and transmit their power. As long as we live, their effects must live, pursuing us to whatever world we may go, and in whatever circumstances placed.

What, then, are we this morning, as the result of those changes, to which we have been subject during the pilgrimage of life? We are not by any means what we were when we began to breathe; nor shall we long remain what we now are. Though time destroys not our essential iden tity of body or spirit, it is nevertheless with every beating pulse making its mark upon our existence. Such has been our history in the past; and such it must be in the future, onward to that solemn moment when our connection with earth will come to a close. Our rapidly receding years are lessening the space between the present and the mortal hour; and soon that time will come, which to us will be the end of time. The never dying principle of mental existence, with its enduring character, having passed the period of its earthly discipline and received its immortal stamp, is the only thing that will survive the strange, mysterious, awful shock of death-the last and the greatest of the changes which Heaven has assigned to our lot. This will live in another world, all life, all thought, all bliss or woe, when the body that once contained and impri

soned it, shall be taking its long sleep in the bosom of its mother-earth. Tell me, then, hearer, what is to be the effect of time upon your SOUL— the real and imperishable being within you that decay cannot reach, and whose longevity even eternity cannot exhaust? Will it rear a moral pyramid of blessings whose lofty summit shall be bathed in heavenly light, gilding and glorifying your existence, through ages of such amazing remoteness as to defy calculation, and bewilder thought? Or will it consign you to that world of sorrows where hope is unknown, and happiness an eternal stranger? These questions should come home with thrilling consequence; and I am persuaded, that you cannot better employ the opening hours of this year, than in seeking an answer. Suppose you spend the remainder of life substantially as you have spent the last year, what, then, will be the issue in eternity? Are you a Christian? Have you made God your friend, and sought his favor according to the plan of his gospel? If not, you do well to see where you are, to take counsel at the bar of truth, and flee for grace to the Christian altar, ere you are doomed beyond the reach of effort or the call of mercy. May God so teach us to number our days, that we shall apply our hearts unto wisdom.

HYMN.

By cool Siloam's shady rill

How sweet the lily grows;

How sweet the breath, beneath the hill,

Of Sharon's dewy rose!

Lo! such the child, whose early feet
The paths of peace have trod,

Whose secret heart, with influence sweet,
Is upward drawn to God.

By cool Siloam's shady rill

The lily must decay;

The rose that blooms beneath the hill,
Must shortly fade away.

And soon, too soon, the wintry hour
Of man's maturer age,

Will shake the soul with sorrow's power,
And stormy passions rage.

O Thou who givest life and breath,
We seek thy grace alone,

In childhood, manhood, age, and death,
To keep us still thine own.

-HEBER.

SERMON DCXLI.

BY REV. W. S. TYLER,

PROFESSOR IN AMHERST COLLEGE.

CITIZENSHIP IN HEAVEN.

"For our conversation is in Heaven."-PHIL. iii. 20.

THE word rendered conversation in this passage properly denotes, not what we commonly express by conversation, social intercourse, nor exactly what the word meant in the age of Elizabeth and James, habitual conduct and manner of life. Its primary signification is citizenship. It expresses the relation of a citizen to his native country-to the commonwealth of his love and choice. It is radically the same with that which Aristotle and Plato used to designate their Model State, and also with that which the Apostle Paul employs, when he speaks of "the commonwealth of Israel," The commonwealth of true Israelites and the commonwealth of true Christians are one and the same. There is a republic more spiritual than that of Plato, better arranged and better governed than that of Aristotle, wiser than the community of philosophers; conversant with higher themes and sustaining more honorable relations, than the republic of letters. And it is not, like the imaginary republics of ancient philosophers, merely an idea, a fancy, a dream, an utopia without any real or possible existence. We can point it out in actual being. We can show, where its territory lies, and what is its capital, and who is its chief magistrate, and who its citizens, and what are its laws, and what its aim and end and future destiny. And when we have done so, we shall endeavor to impress on our own hearts and on the hearts of our hearers, the practical conviction, that it is a question of paramount concern to us, what are our obligations and relations to this great commonwealth.

I. Touching the locality of this republic, or the seat of government, we have the declaration of our text, that it is in heaven.

Its territory, in the broadest sense, is the universe. This and all worlds belong to the Sovereign of the State, and he has given them to his people. The earth is the Lord's, and he has given it to his saints. The heavens are his and all their countless hosts. The stars are his, for he made them and peopled them with all their holy and happy inhabitants. Some of the angels rebelled against his government, but they wrested from him none of his territory. They were cast out of heaven, and hell is but the prison in which he keeps them against the day of judgment. Mankind, also, have disobeyed his commands and set up a government for themselves. But this alienation of a portion of his dominions, if such it may be called, is only temporary-only apparent. The earth is still his, and it shall be the inheritance of his children-the possession of his saints. But their proper country-that about which cluster all the

hallowed associations of citizenship, and home and native land-is in heaven. We know little of it. We only know that it is a goodly land, a better country than the most salubrious, and fertile, and beautiful, of all on the face of the earth. It is the heavenly Canaan, and in comparison with it, the earthly Canaan, that land of the olive and the vine, the palm tree and the cedar-that land of fountains and of streams of water, of rich fields and fat pastures, flowing with milk and honey, is but a barren desert. And the capital is the new Jerusalem, built on Mount Zion above, whose walls are of precious stones, and the gates pearls, and the streets pure gold. And with all the magnificence of a city beautiful and glorious beyond compare, it unites all the attractions of a rural scenery, such as never delighted the eye of mortal here below. In the midst of the golden streets flows the pure river of the water of life, clear as crystal; and on either side of the river, grows the tree of life in long succession, with all its rich variety of form and fruit and foliage; beautiful to look upon, refreshing to sit beneath, its fruit immortality, and its very leaves for the healing of the nations. There is no temple in it. The city, the country, is all sacred with the presence of God, and that presence is the temple, where God is worshipped, not at a distance, not through forms and ordinances, and outward means; not in the costliest structure human hands can rear, nor even in that magnificent cathedral, lighted with suns and stars, which is his own handiwork, but in himself-himself a wall of fire round about, himself a light and glory in the midst. And there is no sea there no barren surface, no pathless deep, no stormy wave, no restless heaving bosom; but all the soil is fruitful and all the air is peace. And there is no night there; they no longer need it for sleep, for there labor is rest, and activity, repose. They no longer need it, as we do here, to reveal to them those worlds of light, which darkness shows us, but which are never seen by day; for there darkness is not the appointed precursor of light, nor evil the necessary means of a greater good. And the city has no need of lamps to light it, nor of the sun or moon to shine in it; for the glory of God doth lighten it, and the Lamb is the light thereof. And the gates are never shut, and yet there never enters it anything that defileth. For the whole country around is the paradise of God -a paradise of purity and beauty, of health and happiness, in comparison with which, all the real and all the fabled paradises of oriental wealth, and power, and splendor, deserve not to be named; and even the garden of man's primeval innocence and bliss is but a faint type and shadow of the celestial Eden.

II. The head of this commonwealth, or the Sovereign of this kingdom (for while in one view it is a republic, in another it is more properly a kingdom) is God, the almighty maker, proprietor and ruler of the univese, the King of kings and Lord of lords, who to an intrinsic and inalienable right to reign over all his creatures, adds every possible qualification of a perfect moral Governor-omniscience to discern all their wants, omnipresence to be with them at all times and places, omnipotence to supply all their necessities, infinite goodness that desires the virtue and happiness of every creature; inflexible justice that will not at all acquit the guilty; such unspotted holiness, as turns with unspeakable abhorrence from the least sin, and yet such unbounded love and mercy as welcomes back