readily and so frequently estranged from him. You would not have suspected or envied, or provoked, or wounded him, as you have done. You would not have consulted so constantly your own selfish inclinations, or sought your own selfish ends, or indulged your own selfish pas sions. And, above all, you would not, in your dealings with him, have so exclusively regarded the things of time, and so grievously neglected the things of eternity. Ah! you would not have met so often, and so often parted, without one sentence or one mutual thought of godliness interchanged between you. You would have spoken more faithfully; you would have conversed and communed on the things that belong to your peace. You would have wept over sin together, and praised the love of the Saviour together, and prayed together, and joined together in the works of faith and labor of love. Your reserve would have been far more completely laid aside, and God would have been far more fully acknowledged, and "a word in season" would have been uttered, and something, it may be, perilous to the soul of a dying sinner would have been left unsaid, if, when you last saw and conversed with your brother, you had had the slightest idea that he so speedily was to go to his long home. And does this consideration lose its force when, by such a sentence as that before us, the members of a family are not, as it were, individually, and one by one, but altogether, and in one sweeping summons, called to pass from the shadows of time to the dread realities of the eternal world? Is there not an awful voice to families in the brief and passing record, “Joseph died, and all his brethren ?" With their loves and hatreds, their fears and hopes, their family affections, such as they were, their family sins-they are all gone from this earth, and the place that once knew them now knows them no more. And whither are they gone? and what are their views now, and what their feelings, on the matters which formed the subject of their familiar intercourse here? Are they united in the region of blessedness above? Are they formed again into a society in heaven, more happy and more stable than was their household on earth-Joseph and his brethren, the beloved Benjamin, and the aged Jacob—all met in joy, to part no more forever. Or is there a fearful separation, and are there some of their number on the other side of the great gulf-vainly regretting the time when they would not cast in their lot with those who were faithful to their father's God? We dare not raise the curtain, or gaze even in imagination on the mysterious secrets of the invisible state. It is enough that they are all dead, and have left the many things about which they were careful, and have all now at last learned the lesson-" One thing is needful." O would to God that the anticipation of the time when, concerning you and those with whom you are dwelling together in families, the short and summary record shall be, that you are dead and all your brethren, were sufficient to teach you that lesson now, ere it be too late! O that God himself would persuade you now, so to ultivate the charities of

home, in the spirit and hope of heaven, that to you and your brethren it may be applied, in their highest and holiest and happiest sense, the words of David's lamentation over the father and son who fell together in the fight-" They were lovely and pleasant in their lives, and in their death they were not divided." So "Joseph died, and all his brethren." III. “And all that generation." The tide of mortality rolls on in a wider stream. It sweeps into the one vast ocean of eternity all the members of a family-all the families of a race. The distinctions alike. of individuals and households are lost. Every land-mark is laid low. The various dates and manner of different departures are merged and overwhelmed in the one universal announcement, that of all who at one given time existed on the earth, not one remains-Joseph is dead, and all his brethren, and all that generation. Some are gone in tender years of childhood, unconscious of life's sins and sufferings-some in grayheaded age, weighed down by many troubles. Some have perished by the hand of violence-some by natural decay. Here is one smitten in an instant to the dust-there is another, the victim of slow and tortur ing disease-the strong man and the weak-the proud man and the beggar-the king and the subject--some in prosperity, and nursed by friends; others in dreary and desolate destitution, without a friend or brother to close the anxious eye. The thousands have all met their doom from a thousand different causes, and in a countless variety of circumstances. War, famine, pestilence, have had their innumerable victims. Crime has carried off, in one indistinguishable crowd, the ministers that did his pleasure-the dupes that fell into his snares. Profligacy has slowly preyed on the pining souls and bodies of her votaries. Accident has suddenly snapped the thread of life. tyrant, mingling men's blood with their sacrifices-the falling tower crushing its inmates under its weight-fire seizing the midnight dwelling, or the lonely ship in mid ocean far—the assassin's knife—the poisoning cup—or the weary wear and tear of a prolonged battle with life's ills-all have numbered their triumphs over the proud race that lords it in this lower world. Grave after grave has been opened and filled; man after man has gone the way of all living; new bodies have been consigned to the silent tomb; new sets of mourners have gone about the streets. And now, of the entire multitude that at some one point of time occupied the earth, not one remains; all, all are gone. Various were their pursuits, their toils, their interests, their joys, their griefsvarious their eventful histories; but one common sentence will serve as the epitaph of all-"Joseph died, and all his brethren, and all that generation." And another generation now fills the stage-a genera tion that, in all its vast circle of families, can produce not one individual to link it with the buried race on whose ashes it is treading. Make for yourselves, in imagination, the abrupt transition the historian here makes in his narrative-the sudden leap across an interval of years, during

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which the gradual process of death and birth has been going on, ever emptying, but ever replenishing, the earth, and keeping it ever full. Make that interval, as he does, an absolute blank-a dreary void-a great gulf. Let the sleep or oblivion of a century come in between; and as you awake out of a trance, let it be amid a throng as eager and as busy as that which you left, but a throng in which you see not the face of one old friend rise visaged to the view." It is the same scene as before; but ah! how changed. On a smaller scale, you have experienced something of what we now describe. In the sad season of bereavement, how have you felt your pain embittered by the contrast between death reigning in your heart and home, and busy life going on all around! Oh! to step out from the darkened chamber of sickness, or the house of solitary woe, and stand all at once in the glare and amid the tumult of the broad and busy day--to see the sun shine as brightly, and the green earth smile as gladly, and all nature rejoice as gloriously as ever, while all to you is a blank-to hear the concord of sweet voices mocking your desolation-to mix with dreary heart in the unsympathizing crowd-it is enough often to turn distress into distraction, and make In the loathe the light and life that so offend your sadness! you prospect, too, of your own departure, does not this thought form an element of the dreariness of death, that when you are gone, and laid in the silent tomb, others will arise that knew not you? Your removal will scarce occasion even a momentary interruption in he onward course and incessant hurry of affairs, and your loss will be but as that of a drop of water from the tide that rolls on in its career as mighty and as majestical as ever.

But here, it is a whole generation, with all its families, that is engulfed in one unmeasured tomb! And lo! the earth is still all astir with the same activities, all gay with the same pomps and pageantries, all engrossed with the same vanities and follies; and alas! the same sins also, that have been beguiling and disappointing the successive races of its inhabitants since the world began!

Is there no moral in the shadow which this summary and gigantic burial of a whole generation, in one single brief text, casts upon all these things-on the joys and sorrows, the cares, the toils, the pleasures of time as the gates of eternity open to shut in from our view, with a single sweep, the millions that once used them as we are using them now?

What are they all, with the tears or smiles they caused, to those millions to whom but now they seemed to be every thing? What will they all be to us, when of each one of us, as of Joseph, the simple record shall be, that he died, and all his brethren, and all that generation? This burial of a whole generation! the individual, the family, and the entire mass of life, mingled in one common tomb! surely it is a solemn thought. It appeals to our natural sensibility; does it not appeal also to our spir

itual apprehension? For natural sensibility is but little trustworthy Easily moved by such musings, it is easily composed-violent emotion and frivolous apathy being the extremes between which it vacillates and vibrates. To carry and command its sympathies for the moment is an insignificant and unworthy triumph. But faith finds matter of deeper and more lasting impression here. Death is the great divider; it severs families and cuts friendships asunder-breaking clósest ties, and causing the most compact associations to fall to pieces. Coming as it does upon the race of men, one by one-singling out individually, one after another, its successive prey-it resolves each hill or mountain into its constituent grains, taking separate account of every one of them, as separately it draws them into its own insatiable jaws. But death is the great uniter, too: separating for a time, it brings all together at last. The churchyard opens its graves to part dearest brethren and friends; but soon it opens them again, to mix their kindred ashes in one common dust.

Is the union, however, that death occasions, real, substantial, enduring?

Joseph died, and all his brethren, and all that generation." Death passed upon them all, for they all had sinned. It is the common lot—the general history-the universal characteristic.

And there is another common lot-another general history—another universal characteristic: "After death, the judgment." Joseph rises again, and all his brethren, and all that generation; and they all stand before the judgment-seat. There is union then: the small and the great are there the servant and his master-all are brought together; but for what? And for how long? "The wicked shall go away into everlasting punishment, but the righteous into life eternal."

What a solemn contrast have we here! Death unites after separation; the judgment unites in order to separate. Death, closing the drama of time, lets the curtain fall upon its whole scenery and all its actors; the judgment, opening the drama of eternity, discloses scenery and actors once more entire. All die; all are judged. The two events happen alike to all. And both are near; for the time is short-the

Lord is at hand.

But before death, before the judgment, is the gospel freely preached to all; and a voice is heard: "Behold, I stand at the door and knock; if any man open unto me, I will come in unto him, and sup with him, and he with me." Let this feast of love be begun in heart after heart, as one by one, sinners die with Christ unto sin, and live with him unto God. And when individuals, families, generations, are separated, and united, to be separated again, may it be our privilege to meet at the marriage-supper of the Lamb, beyond which there is no parting any more forever.

DISCOURSE LI.

JAMES HAMILTON, D.D., F.L.S.

THE "Moore of the Pulpit," as Dr. Hamilton has been called, was born about the year 1810, at Strathaven, Scotland, where his father was parish clergyman, and a man of considerable distinction. He was graduated at the University of Glasgow in the year 1829, and has now been pastor of the National Scotch Church, Regent's Square, London, some twelve or fifteen years. Dr. Hamilton is widely known in this country, as well as beyond the Atlantic, from his excellent and popular works; such as (6 Life in Earnest;" "Harp on the Willows;" "Happy Home;" "Life of Lady Colquhoun;" "Mount of Olives;" "The Royal Preacher," etc. He is besides possessed of remarkable pulpit talents, which attract many to his ministry. We copy the remarks of a frequent hearer:

"He is the most poetical of preachers. Like the person described in Hudibras,

He possesses a vivid imagination, a brilliant fancy, and a sparkling phraseology. His sentences are strings of pearls, and whatever subject he touches, he invariably adorns. His affluence of imagery is surprising. To illustrate some particular Scripture, he will lay science, art, and natural history under contribution. But plenteous as are the flowers of eloquence, their sweetness does not cloy. And withal, a spirit of earnest piety pervades the discourse. There is one drawback-the broad Scotch accent in which it is delivered."

Some of his views of preaching are brought out in the Introduction to his "Life in Earnest:" "For the directness of the style and the plainness of the illustrations, I do not apologize. They are not more a natural propensity than the result of conscientious conviction; for as I can not be persuaded that, in matters of taste, any thing is eloquent which does not answer the end in view, nor that in theology any thing is sublime which is not scriptural; so I can not think that, in preaching, any thing is out of place which puts the truth in its proper place--in the memory and the hearts of the hearers-nor that any thing is mean which can trace its pedigree back to the Mount of Beatitudes."

The sermon which is here given will commend itself as justifying, in some measure, the high award of merit assigned to the preacher's abilities. We are sorry to add, that Dr. Hamilton has been for some time in ill health; and that hie constitution, at best not firm, seems of late somewhat broken.