He had been trained up at their family altar; he had listened, from time to time, to the word of God; had heard, from day to day, the pleadings of his father with Heaven for his conversion; yet he still stood out. He had constantly before him the holy example of a devoted father and mother; and, in answer to their private intercessions for him, had been the subject of deep convictions; but he resisted the Spirit. He was seen one night at the revival meeting. One of the ministers entreated him to give his heart to God; but, in sullen rebellion, he still resisted. When the meeting closed, and he returned home, his anxious mother got him alone, and urged him to yield to God (you know how mothers can plead). He gave that mother a look as fierce as that of a demon, and said, "Mother, I tell you, I would rather be damned than yield." No sooner had the words escaped his lips, than he stumbled, and fell at her feet. When she raised him up, he was a corpse; his face was blanched in death. But I have not told you all; the last words she heard him say were, “I am damned, I am damned!" Why such a tender mother's heart was permitted to be wrung with anguish so deep, God only knows. Now, what was the sin of that young man? Why,

mental rebellion.

God's Holy Spirit is striving now with you, backslider; with you that are undecided; with you, pew-holders; with you, unconverted professors; and you refuse to yield. What is the sin you are now deliberately committing? Why, mental rebellion. Now, I ask you, will you seek the forgiveness of your sins? I tell you, if you leave this chapel to-night unsaved, you are guilty of mental rebellion. The young man said, in words, "I would rather be damned than yield." You say, by conduct that speaks louder than words, "I would rather be damned than yield." I leave the great Author of the universe, before whose tribunal you must stand,- the Judge of men, to decide which is the greatest sinner. "And the Lord said, My Spirit shall not always strive with man."

SERMON IX.

THE STING OF DEATH.

Therefore, leaving the principles of the doctrine of Christ, let us go on to perfection; not laying again the foundation of repentance from sin and dead works. - HEB. 6: 1. The sting of death is sin.-1 COR. 15: 56.

A SLIGHT acquaintance with a man will convince us of the truth of two propositions.

First. That every man is laboring to attain some object.

Second. That according to the intensity of the interest he feels in the object, will be his delight in pursuing it. It is the deep interest he feels in the object that sweetens the toil, beguiles the time, and cheers him on. These two propositions lie at the foundation of all human effort, - they pervade the entire of our actions.

A few illustrations of this poin

Jacob engaged with Laban to serve him seven years for Rachel. The object before him was Rachel; and though the sun scorched him by day, and the frost withered him by night, it is said, "Jacob served seven years for Rachel, and they seemed to him but a few days, for the love he had to her." The deep interest he felt in the object of his pursuit gave wings to time, and made years fly as days. Again, a man is deep in debt, and the object he has before him is, to "owe no man anything,' to be able to look every man boldly in the face. To accomplish this, what sacrifices will he not make,- what labor and toil will he not endure? The deep interest he feels in the attainment of his object calls him to toil ere the sun has yet risen; hurries him on through the whirl of business; braces his spirit; nerves his arm; and sweetens all his labors.

The merchant is looking onward to retirement from business, when, in the calm evening of life, he can sit down and enjoy his

neat little country seat; that is the object before him. The interest he feels in its attainment gives zest to his jaded spirit, and throws a charm over what would otherwise be, from year to year, one dull scene of monotony.

The same principle actuates the warrior on the battle-field. His object is military glory; a name in the annals of fame; the applause of the brave. To accomplish this, he will bid adieu to the loved scenes of home, the smiling babe, the heart-broken wife. He will brave the perils of the deep; and, in the face of the gleaming spear, the murderous battle-shout, the shower of death, the roaring cannon's mouth, he will rush to victory or to death; and all to obtain the laurels of earthly, perishing fame. And were I to say that every real Christian in this congregation was not laboring to attain an object, your experience would rise up and contradict me. You have an object before you, rest after the storms of life are past — rest happy dying hournow and rest hereafter-sweet rest in the calm of heaven crown, a brilliant crown, a crown of life, that fadeth not away,"-heaven! heaven!

a

a

a crown of glory

"Where flesh and blood hath never been,
Where mortal eye hath never seen;
A mental sphere-a flood of light;
A sea of glory, dazzling bright."

That is the object before you; and, if you would secure it, you must get rid of the sting of death; you must go on to perfection. We lay down, then, for our discussion, one proposition, — THAT, IF A HAPPY AND TRIUMPHANT DEATH-BED BE DESIRABLE,

AND IF A GLOOMY AND MISERABLE DEATH-BED IS TO BE DEPRECATED, THEN GO ON TO PERFECTION.

We do not mean to dwell upon the nature of Christian perfection, but simply upon the results of perfection upon a dying hour. How solemn is life's last hour! The journey is ended; the immortal candidate is on life's last shore. The cold and bitter flood lies between him and the better land; and, from thence, he has to review all the road along which he has trav elled. Memory retouches all the past; and, in a few minutes,

he seems to live the whole of life over again. The scenes long
forgotten now, in his dying hour, gather around him in vivid
reality; and to be able to look calmly on Death, with the dart
gleaming in his uplifted hand, and not be afraid, is the very per-
fection of religion. Poor humanity may, for a moment, shudder;
the cold shivering of mortality may come over it; but the grace
of God can enable the Christian to exclaim, "To die is gain."
See that sun setting in the western sky; the blue arch is cloud-
less; everything seems hushed, serene, and quiet; nature bath-
ing in his parting beams. O, how sublime the scene!
more sublime is the sight of a Christian dying happy in God, —
"Dying in brighter day to rise." There is one piece of poetry
which beautifully describes the Christian's happy close:

"Vital spark of heavenly flame,
Quit, oh, quit this mortal frame !
Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying, –
O, the pain, the bliss, of dying!
Cease, fond nature, cease thy strife,
And let me languish into life."

Still

Here the soul seems to say to the body, "We have been companions long; we have travelled together life's rough road; but now home is in view. Cease, fond nature, cease thy strife;' let me go." Here the soul is described as hovering on the very precincts of heaven; and, seeming to hear the rustling of the wings of the ministering spirits, it cries,

The spirit has now launched into eternity; it has commenced its upward flight; the earth, like a little dark spot, grows less

and less; heaven opens upon the vision; the new Jerusalem is now in sight; the pearly gates, the jasper walls, the angelic watchmen, all flaming with the glory of God, are seen floating far away in the blue ether piled against the light. Now the heavenly music-music sweeter than any the earth can produce-bursts upon the ear; now she wants to speed her flight; she exclaims,

"Lend, lend your wings; I mount, I fly!

O grave! where is thy victory?
O death! where is thy sting?"

Were I to repeat this over again, there is not a gentleman here, however refined in his taste, but would say, “Ah, that is beautiful poetry; that will live as long as the English language shall last." "But," says one, "it is poetry, after all; —I like sober prose and sound doctrine." I have seen people die, but never like that; I have seen the glazed eyes, the blanched cheek, the withered face; I have heard the death-rattle gurgle in the throat, and have seen the sinking of the frame into the quiet of death, and something like a faint smile flitting over the countenance; but never have I found anything like that described in the poetry just quoted. To show you that the matchless poetry above does not go beyond the truth that a holy Christian can die happy, I will refer you to one fact. When looking over my papers, I found an account written eight or nine years ago, the source whence I obtained it gave me the fullest assurance of its truth. An infidel's son, many miles distant from his father's house, heard of the illness of his mother, and hastened home. The sun was just rising over his native hills, when he alighted in front of his father's mansion; his sister flew towards him, pressed him to her heart, and led the way to the sick-room of his mother. The young infidel stepped forward to the bed; she seemed dozing, but pale and emaciated. He almost concluded her dead, till a sweet smile played upon her countenance. Her lips moved; he leaned over, and heard her say, "I come! I come!" opening her eyes gently. "O, I thought I was going." "Where, mother?" he whispered. (She had not recognized