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THE FOUNTAIN OF LIFE.

Ir is a curious and instructive fact, that the Scriptures uniformly speak of religion as our life, as that without which we are dead, mere bloodless anatomies, incapable of enjoyment and accomplishing no valuable end in the economy of the Universe. And never, in the strong but discriminating language of the Bible, does a man truly and properly live, till he loves the God who made him and the Saviour who died for his redemption.

No such language is applied to the lower orders of creation. They live and enjoy life, notwithstanding the absence of religious principle and feeling. As they roam the field and crop its pasturage, or visit the brook and quench their thirst, or lie down in the shade to ruminate or rest, they find the full measure of enjoyment of which their nature is capable. Their desires are all gratified. They were hungry, and they fed; thirsty, and they drank; weary, and they repose in unfevered and unanxious sleep. Look over the wide prairie and forest where man has not yet lorded it, and behold the different tribes of animals retired to their rest, in the dusk of the evening. The fowl has perched himself by the side of his mate; the beast has lain down in his lair; the timid sort are snug in their covert, their old rent-free homestead where they were born and where they will die. How quiet is the scene! Among all those shaggy sleepers there are no heart-aches; no withered hopes; no mortified pride; no wearied eye watching for the morning; no vaulting ambition planning for future advancement; no guilt-stricken spirit starting in its dreams with shriek and chill. O ye people of the wood and the field, how ye get the very balm of slumber and the entire satisfying of your nature, whether roaming or at rest, while we, your lords, shift, and fret, and ache with emptiness! Turn from their forest home to the abodes of men, to the city and the crowded mart, and see our own sort and kin as they hurry to and fro, jostling and elbowing one another all the way; hoping, despairing, weeping, rejoicing, laughing, crying, blessing, cursing; see the innumerable cross currents and eddies, and gusts of pride, fear, envy, love, hatred, that warp and whirl these pent up people in all directions. See these same people when the midnight clock has struck. Some tossing on straw, others on down, others pacing the floor, scarcely one sleeping quietly, balmily.

Awake or asleep all things are full of labor; man cannot utter it; the eye is not satisfied with seeing, nor the ear filled with hearing.

Or cast your thoughts towards the myriads of living things that inhabit the sea-leviathan playing therein; shoals of dolphins riding on the crests of the billows, gladder than schoolboys just let loose; and swarms of scaly fry skimming the flood or leaping into the air, or diving among the coral caves and treasure beds of the ocean, and then fix your eye on that ship, that floating citadel or palace of man's contrivance, as it looms up from the horizon and scuds on towards its haven, with its cargo of human ambition, pride, hope, selfishness. There may be more disquiet, more anxiety, more sorrow in that narrow cabin, than is felt among all the living millions of the deep. The millions of the sea, of the field and forest, LIVE. They are all answering the ends and living according to the laws of their being, and seeking satisfaction in objects suited to their natures.

Why is it otherwise with men? Doth God care for oxen and leave man to fret and fever himself with that which satisfieth not? No. The explanation is this. The animals around us seek their satisfaction in the things that were intended to satisfy them, and they are not disappointed. But we have a different and a higher nature, a nature which to be happy must be employed in other pursuits and satisfied with other enjoyments. We have wants which the brutes have not, and these are our deepest and most urgently earnest wants. They are the wants of our spiritual nature, and they can be gratified only by religion, pervading the inner sanctuary of the soul and becoming the shekinah' of the heart. The fear of the Lord is LIFE, and he that hath it SHALL ABIDE SATISFIED." Religion glowing in the soul, enlightening, purifying, expanding it, bearing it onward and upward for ever, is the true and only life of man, at once the light and aliment, the completion and joy of his spiritual and immortal This great truth may be profitably pursued and illustrated by considering some of the obvious necessities of our nature, and the provision made by religion for their gratification. And here let each reader fall back upon his own consciousness, upon the felt restlessness and cravings of his own spirit.

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1. WE NEED A GOD. We arrive at the conviction of this necessity not by labored argu

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ment and inference. We feel it, and skepticism has no power to allay or relieve that feeling. We were not made to be atheists. Our moral nature can never square itself to a godless creed. Why do men everywhere, in all ages, feel after God if haply they may find him?" Why does "the heathen in his blindness, bow down to wood and stone?" "I believe," said an Alpine prince to a missionary, "I believe there is a God who made all things, who gives prosperity, sickness and death, but I do not know him, though I long to." This felt impression of the necessity and existence of a God does not depend upon any argument, or proofs from outward nature, or even upon revelation. The Bible, accordingly, never argues the divine existence. It takes it for granted. It views it as one of those great truths which every man intuitively perceives and feels, and which he would perceive and feel were the visible universe with its evidences shrivelled and swept away. Blot out all the records, extinguish all the lights exterior to myself, and there yet remains a record and a light within. Seal all the senses and shut out the universe, still the idea of a God is shut in with the soul and bound up with its own conscious existence. Now this thought troubles me. My conviction that there is a God is big even to fearfulness; it cleaves to me when I go out and when I come in; it is a part of me, living in my life so that I cannot tear it out nor hush it. It preys upon my soul, and yet vitalizes it. It at once consumes me, and nerves me with a new and mysterious strength. There is a strange unhappiness, a vague disturbance in my soul, and overborne, I exclaim in the spirit of the African prince, "I need a God-there is a God-but I do not know him!" O, reader, happy are you, if, when you have thus mused, religion came to illumine and redeem you, and leading you into the divine presence, and touching your lip with hallowed fire and your heart with filial love, taught you to say, "My Father, who art in heaven." The joy of the ancient philosopher upon discovering a principle in natural science, when he leaped from the bath, and ran in ecstacy through the streets, exclaiming, "I have found it, I have found it," was poor joy compared with his who has found God, and in God all those spiritual glories which satisfy and sanctify the immortal longings of the soul. He before felt that there was a God; becoming a Christian, he has found and appropriated this God, and he understands that to know this God is both life present and life eternal. It has been justly observed that

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we need for the heart a being worthy of its whole treasure of love, to whom we may consecrate our whole existence; in approaching whom we enter an atmosphere of purity and brightness; in sympathizing with whom we cherish only noble sentiments; in devoting ourselves to whom we espouse great and enduring interests; and by attachment to whom all our other attachments are hallowed, protected, and supplied with tender and sublime consolations under bereavement and blighted hope. being is God. To such a being true religion introduces and assimilates us. And who shall adequately describe the happiness which results from the discovery and love of the Christian's God? There is one word often employed in the Bible to express it, perhaps the best our language affords, and yet a word whose full import is not readily comprehended. PEACE. There is, says one, a two-fold peace. The first is negative. It is relief from disquiet and corroding care. It is repose after conflict and storms. But there is another and a higher peace, to which this is but a prelude, a “peace of God which passeth all understanding," and expressively called "the kingdom of God within us." This state is anything but negative. It is the highest and most strenuous action of the soul, but an entirely harmonious action, in which all our powers and affections are blended in a beautiful proportion, and sustain and perfect one another. It is more than silence after storms. It is as the concord of all melodious sounds. Child of God, hast thou never known a season, when in the fullest flow of thought and feeling, in the universal action of the soul, an inward calm, profound as midnight silence, yet bright as the still summer noon, full of joy, but unbroken by one throb of tumultuous passion, has been breathed through thy spirit and over the face of nature, and given thee a glimpse and presage of the serenity of a better and happier world? That was peace, the peace of God. It was a conscious harmony with God, and through him with the creation; an alliance of love with all beings; a sympathy with all that is pure, and bright, and good; a concord and oneness with the spirit and purpose of thine own Infinite Original. And this is happiness-this is LIFE.

In the second place, Religion is Life, that is, it satisfies the felt necessities of our nature, in its assurances of immortality. 1 long for existence beyond the present. The beast of the field and the fowl of heaven know nothing of this feeling. To-morrow does not concern him.

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"Pleas'd to the last he crops the flow'ry food, And licks the hand just rais'd to shed his blood."

It is different with me. I cannot enjoy life to-day, unless assured I shall live hereafter. I cling to existence; I long inwardly for immortality. I can bear all other losses but the loss of being. At the word annihilation, my spirit recoils and shudders, and lifts her voice to God, saying, O, my Father, let me live! Wither, if it pleases thee, the green and sunlit fields of creation; take, if it seem good, this hearing, that now drinks in all music, all sweet sounds and voices of friend and lover; take back this gift of vision, and bid to me

"No more return,

Day or the sweet approach of even or morn, Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer's rose, Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine, But cloud instead, and ever-during dark ;”

Take all; and leave me poor for ever, but O, my Father, let me live-take what thou wilt a way, but, O, leave me that immortality to which my nature clings. Hast not thou, thyself, taught nature to give all that she hath for her life?

Now this strong desire of immortality meets no sympathizing, satisfying response, except in religion. The gospel brings life and immortality to light. Other witnesses may suggest expectation and hope, but this brings assurance. Other teachers may bid me notice the reviving of nature in spring, or the butterfly bursting from its tomb into beautiful life, as emblems of hope and promise that this body shall one day rise from the grave. But the heart refuses to confide or rejoice till it hears the gospel saying, "I would not have you ignorant, brethren, concerning them which are asleep, that ye sorrow not even as others which have no hope. For if we believe that Jesus died and rose again, even so them also which sleep in Jesus will God bring with him."

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To the irreligious man, indeed, the doctrine of the soul's immortality must be a perennial fountain of bitterness. Said the celebrated Col. Gardner, speaking of his feelings while he was yet an unconverted profligate, I often wished I was a dog." There were moments in the midst of his revels, when he wished he could give up existence, and die and vanish from being like a brute. And yet had he been brought to the point, he would have drawn back. Like every other man, his love of existence was stronger than that temporary wish. Like any other sinner in his reflecting moments, he found himself between two fires-tired of liv

ing, yet afraid to die. Either prospect is dreadful. To think of death as an eternal sleep;

"To lie in cold obstruction, and to rot" with the beast shocks you, your nature spurns it as a lie. To think of living on, a quick and vital thing for ever and ever, deathless amid the wreck of matter, unharmed amid the crush of worlds; to feel assured that amid the slow-moving cycles of eternity, your identical self must be somewhere, reaping the fruit of sin; that system after system may wheel away and still leave you reaping; that age after age and ten thousand ages may move wearily on, and still leave you reaping-this, too, is a fearful prospect. Annihilation is shocking. Immortality is shocking. The feeling appropriate to the condition might be expressed in the language of Milton's Satan :

"Me, miserable, which way shall I fly! Which way I fly is hell-myself am hell."

Is there no relief then? Yes, here, and only here—in humble, heartfelt religion. Christ can throw the salt of grace into that fountain of immortal existence which is within thee, and then it shall flow forth clear as crystal unto everlasting life.

3. The religion of the gospel experienced in the heart, is emphatically our life, because it removes our burdens as sinners. It is not only true that all have sinned and fallen into a state of condemnation and corruption; but it is also true that all at some time, with more or less distinctness, perceive and feel it, sometimes most oppressively. This is the secret cause of no small share of that restlessness and corroding anxiety that is visible around us. Hence, too, the numberless devices to expiate their sins by penances, austerities, pilgrimages, and self-inflicted tortures, and thus quiet the tumult in their bosoms, preferring the utmost bodily suffering to the anguish of a wounded spirit. While a quiet satisfaction overspreads the face of nature, while guiltlessness and ease sit upon the expression of the dumb creature, man has a fire within, and carries a troubled conscience and a clouded brow. He feels like a condemned criminal, sunk in disgrace and loaded with chains. He is a miserable bankrupt under the law and government of God, overwhelmed with debt, and not a farthing to pay. Perhaps he has long tried to discharge the debt himself, by prayers and tears, by forms and ceremonies, by sacrifices and self-denial. Still it is unpaidnay, the debt is becoming greater and greater.

The voice of the broken law waxes louder and louder, The soul that sinneth it shall die; Pay me that thou owest. The hand on the wall is writing, rapidly writing, Mene, mene, and conscience, the Daniel in his bosom, interprets, Thou art weighed and found wanting. O, sweet and life-giving at such a time, to such a man, is the evangelic message, that Jesus died to make atonement-to conceal that debt and wipe it out for ever. And the atonement that satisfies the claims of justice, will satisfy also the claims of conscience. The blood that expiated the guilt of sin, will allay the throbbings of a tortured mind. Come, then, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and he that paid the sinner's debt will give you rest. Your heart will then know a new and sweeter joy than earth ever gave. Its tempests will die away, and your soul shall be like the sleeping lake, not only tranquil itself, but reflecting the tranquillity of the skies. There may you look with pity upon the uneasy multitude as they inquire, "Who will show us any good," and communing with your own soul, and swelling with the joys of pardoned sin, you will exclaim, This is LIFE, and he that hath it shall abide satisfied.

4. And in the last place, religion opens to the social sympathies of our nature sources of boundless enjoyment. Man was created for social purposes and pleasures. By the constitution of his nature, he is a social being. The social affections, it has been justly observed, so quick to awake in the very moment almost of our waking being, are ever spreading in the progress of life, because there is no moment to the heart, in which the principle of social union is cold or powerless. The infant does not cling more closely to his nurse, than the boy hastens to meet his playmates, and man to communicate his thoughts to man. It we were to see the little crowd of the busy school-room rush out when the hour of play comes, and instead of mingling in some general pastime, betake themselves each to some solitary spot, till the return of the hour which forced them again together, we should regard it with as much wonder as if a sudden miracle had transformed their bodily features. Not less wonderful would it appear, if in the crowded city, or even in the scattered tents of savages, there were to be no communings of man with man, no voice or smile of greeting.

It is not good for man to be alone. A solitary immortality with all the stars for an inheritance, were charmless and blank vacancy. Such is the structure of our nature, that we

must be in communion with others. We are insufficient for ourselves. Otherwise we had been a race of wild and savage beings, without a country, a home, a friend; without cities or temples, unlovely and unloving. The world had been a wide waste, a dreary wilderness, and men scattered over it like the lonely and unsupported pillars of Palmyra in the desert; with no sunshine of the soul, no gushing forth of the heart, except in solitary self-complacency; no stirring of the spirit with the love of country; no ties of neighborhood; no fireside joys; no domestic endearments. It is pleasant to dwell upon this feature of the human constitution, and to think, too, of the varied provision made for the expression of the social affections. The human face seems constructed on purpose to mirror the kindly and social sympathies of the heart, to vary and kindle with silent expressions of friendship and love, so that without the voice, we see in the eye, the lip, the sunny countenance, the assurance strong of a friend's esteem, a neighbor's confidence, a child's reverence, a wife's affection, a parent's love But besides these, there is the gift of speech, the human voice, with the sweet stops and tones of silver, its gentle, gracious, tender and pitying notes, expressing and invigorating those unbought charities of life, which find man everywhere, and bless him everywhere, in the community of mankind.

But with all this desire and all this provision for social enjoyment, who does not see that this life affords small scope, indeed almost no field for its gratification? Leaving out of view the contracting, dissocializing nature of sin and selfishness, how attenuated and brief, at best, are the social ties of this life! If we overlook the teachings of religion, their history is quickly told. Yesterday's surge threw us together on this isle in the universe-to-morrow's surge sweeps us off and washes out our very footprints. Who wept or laughed, who loved or hated, nothing remains to tell.

"Like the dew on the mountain,
Like the foam on the river,
Like the bubble on the fountain,
We are gone and for ever."

This is not the view of things that satisfies our nature and its inward longings, when acquaintance and lover part and remove into darkness, and firesides are becoming desolate, and families and neighborhoods are melting away, and new and unknown faces are appearing in their stead. Sweet it is to turn away from the

THE FOUNTAIN OF LIFE.

inroads and changes of time, and reflect how the gospel provides for the social sympathies of our nature. Entering the heart of the disciple, it strengthens and hallows the social affections, and opens to him the communion of saints, and welcomes him to the fellowship and endearments of the household of faith. And thus the obscurest Christian is cheered in his struggle with sin and difficulty, by knowing that not only has he the favor of God on his side, but the affectionate sympathy of all the friends of God. And then beyond this world, what a scene opens upon the eye of faith! It was the hope of Cicero, a hope overhung with clouds, that he might be hereafter reunited to his old friends, when death should release him from this crowd and mass of corruption. And who of our readers has not experienced the same longing desire? Ye who have closed the eyes of those you loved, and surrendered to the grasp of the grave, those who by affection had become part of yourselves, the completion of your being, does your heart never ask to meet them again? Does it consent to part with them for ever? Nay, and more than this, he knows that he shall meet again all his best friends, all his spiritual kindred, and dwell with them in inimitably tender affection for ever. Scattered apart though they may have been in life, buried apart in death, the day will come when they shall burst from the thraldom of the grave, and sit together in heavenly places in Christ Jesus, in the delights of unending friendship and love.

And now, beloved reader, we need not ask are you in pursuit of happiness? That we may safely take for granted. All seek it, but alas, the most seek it where it was never found, and never will be. Multitudes seek it in the same field with the beasts that perish, and too often in sensual gratifications which even pall the appetite of the brute. Bear with us, reader, in a few concluding observations. You have been created capable of the joys of religion and of communion with God. This distinguishes you from all other beings here. There is at least the appearance of reason, intellect, in some animals, but the moral sense and the capacity for religion are found only in man. The ox knows his owner, and the ass his master's

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crib; it is your privilege to know, and love, and enjoy the Father of your spirit. Such is your intellectual and moral constitution impressed upon you by the Creator, that you were not only intended for communion with God, but you can never be satisfied and happy without it. The lower creation, the brute, the fowl, the insect and finny tribes find their position here in the air, the floods, and the field. They were made for nothing higher. They have no impress of God's image, no longings after immortality, no pantings after God. There is no aching void in his absence; no sense of guilt and destitution because they are not sons and heirs of the Most High. They were not taught to look up to God, but to man as their master. It is otherwise with you. Yours is a nobler nature, with ampler hopes and higher cravings. You cannot herd with the brute. Your supplies are not found in his pasturage. You cannot lie down with him and die as he dies. Your soul will still live, and its necessities will cry out for ever. Possessed of such powers, and marked for such a destiny, are you sensible of your dignity in the scale of being, and are you in fellowship and communion with the God who made you, through the washing of regeneration and the renewing of the Holy Ghost? Is God your chief good? Be reminded that God has made no other provision for your soul. As the great Creator, he stored the earth with every needed good for your bodies, and put all at your disposal, but he created no portion for your soul. He had made that so vast in its desires, so immortal in its existence, so lofty in its aspirations, that he could create nothing else vast enough or worthy to fill it; and he conferred himself with all his uncreated glories and riches. Vainly does your spirit seek repose and fulness in any other object. If the hand that made you should scoop the ocean's bed and lay all its hidden treasures at your feet; or beautify for you another Eden lovelier than Adam lost, and give you a diadem of stars, and the universe for a kingdom, yet withholding himself, you were a wretch undone; your heart would ache for ever, and burst out in an immortal groan.

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