spring, and your soul may go out among the blossoms, appleorchards swinging their censers in the way. It may be winter, and the earth in a snow-shroud. It may be autumn, and the forests set on fire by the retreating year: dead nature laid out in state. It may be with your wife's hand in your hand, or you may be in a strange hotel, with a servant faithful to the last. It may be in the rail train, shot off the switch, and tumbling, in long reverberation, down the embankment-crash! crash! I know not the time; I know not the mode. But the days of: our life are being subtracted away, and we shall come down to the time when we have but ten days left, then nine days, then eight days, seven days, six days, five days, four days, three days, two days, one day. Then hours: three hours, two hours, one hour. Then only minutes left: five minutes, four minutes, three minutes, two minutes, one minute. Then only seconds left four seconds, three seconds, two seconds, one second. Gone! The chapter of life ended! The book closed! The pulses at rest! The feet through with the journey! The hands closed from all work! No word on the lip. No breath in the nostril. Hair combed back to lie undisheveled by any human hands. The muscles still. The nerves still. The lungs still. The tongue still. All still. You might put the stethoscope to the breast, and hear no sound. You might put a speakingtrumpet to the ear, but you could not break the deafness. No motion. No throb. No life. Still! Still!

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On earth, with many of you, the evening is the happiest part of the twenty-four hours. You gather about the stand. You talk, and laugh, and sing. You recount the day. You plan for the morrow. You have games and repartee. Amidst all the toil of the day, that is the goal for which you run; and as you take out your watch, or look at the descending sun, thrill with the thought that it is toward evening.

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So death comes to the disciple! What if the sun of life is about to set: Jesus is the dayspring from on high; the perpetual morning of every ransomed spirit. What if the darkness comes: Jesus is the light of the world and of heaven. What though this earthly house does crumble: Jesus hath prepared a house of many mansions. Jesus is the anchor that always holds. Jesus is the light that is never eclipsed. Jesus is the fountain that is never exhausted. Jesus is the evening star, hung up amidst the gloom of the gathering night.

You are almost through with the abuse and backbiting of

enemies. They will call you no more by evil names. Your good deeds will not longer be misinterpreted, or your honor filched. The troubles of earth will end in the felicities of heaven! Toward evening!

The bereavements of earth will soon be lifted. You will not much longer stand pouring your grief in the tomb, like Rachel weeping for her children, or David mourning for Absalom. Broken hearts bound up. Wounds healed. Tears wiped away. Sorrows terminated. No more sounding of the dead-march! Toward evening!

Death will come, sweet as slumber to the eyelids of the babe, as full rations to a starving soldier, as evening hour to the exhausted workman. The sky will take on its sunset glow, every cloud a fire-psalm, every lake a glassy mirror; the forests transfigured; delicate mists climbing the air. Your friends will announce it; your pulses will beat it; your joys will ring it; your lips will whisper it: TOWARD EVENING."

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"The world its fancied pearl may cravo,

"Tis not the pearl for me.

"Twill dim its lustre in the grave;
"Twill perish in the sea.

But there's a Pearl of price untold,

That never can be bought with gold;
The sinking soul 'twill save,

Oh! that's the Pearl for me!

"Let pleasure chant her siren song,
'Tis not the song for me.

To weeping it will turn ere long,

For this is Heaven's decree.

But there's a song the ransomed sing

To Jesus, their exalted King,

With cheerful heart and tongue,
Oh! that's the song for me!"

RUNNING WATER.

"Whosoever will, let him take the water of life freely."-Rev. xxii. 17.

[ID-DESERT, the water exhausted from the goat-skins,

the caravan panting under a blistering sun, the feet consumed of the desert, what is it that the people most want? For what do they cry bitterly? For what would they give up the most valuable cargo on the back of the camels? Water! Water!

An army is on the march. They are fainting from the long way. The canteens are empty. The hour of battle is coming on. Forward yet for many a weary mile. No shelter from the burning sun; no rest for the weary feet; pushing on through suffocation and heat. What is it that the soldier most wants? For what would he give up everything that he has with him? What awful want fills his mind, and fevers his tongue, and consumes his vitals? Ask him, as he staggers on under the weight of knapsack and blanket, and if he have strength enough to answer he will say, "Water! Water!"

I was told by a gentleman who walked over one of the battlefields on a hot summer night after a day of carnage, that the cry of the wounded was absolutely unbearable, and that, after giving all supply that he could, he put his fingers to his ears, for the cry all over the plain was from hundreds of dying men, "Water! Water! For God's sake give us water!"

Coming home from the store on a hot summer day, in the eventide, every muscle of your body exhausted with fatigue, what do you first ask for? A cup of water-fresh, clear, sparkling water. Gathered here to night in this summer weather, the revolution of your fans not able to keep your cheek cool, what subject shall be most appropriate? Of what shall I speak? You will want nothing very profound; nothing very protracted. I hear hundreds of voices saying, Talk about water." And so that shall be my theme, God helping me. "Whosoever will, let him come and take the water of life freely."

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The Bible is all a-sparkle with fountains and wells, and rivers and oceans. They toss up their brightness from almost every chapter. Solomon, refreshed with the story of heaven, exclaims, "As cold water to a thirsty soul, so is good news from a far country." Isaiah, speaking of the blessedness of Christians,

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says, "They shall spring as willows by the water-courses." In the Canticles, the Church is often spoken of as a "well of living water," and "streams from Lebanon." The prophet, glowing with the anticipation of the millennium, says, "Streams shall break forth in the desert; "while the text holds forth ten thousand chalices filled with living water for a thirsty world.

I have, in the first place, to remark that water is typical of the Gospel, because of its brightness. That which dashes from the city fountains has no lustre in it compared with that which springs up to-night from this Bible aqueduct. The unpretending fountain breaks forth from the side of the hill, flashing with silver, and gold, and beryl, and chrysolite; and, as you see it, you almost clap your hands with gladness. But I have to tell you that there is no brightness in it compared with this living fountain of the Gospel; for in each falling drop I see the glory of heaven. "Good news! Good news!" The angels chanted it. "Behold! I bring you glad tidings of great joy and salvation, which shall be to all people." Joy of pardoned sin! Joy of broken bondage! Joy of a coming heaven! Oh! it is a bright Gospel! You remember the time when that fountain first flashed upon your vision, and you cried, "Behold! I have found Him whom my soul loveth!" And there was joy in heaven among the angels of God over your forgiven spirit. Roll on, O ye waters of gladness! Roll on, till every deaf ear shall hear the ripple of the wave, and every blind eye shall see the toss of the crystalline brightness, and the glory shall cover the earth as the water the sea.

I have further to remark, that the water typifies the Gospel by its refreshment. How different you feel after you get a glass of cool water, or after you have plunged into the bath! On a hot summer day there is nothing that so soon brings you back from a bad temper or a disturbed spirit, and puts you into a happy frame of mind and body, as cold water. Blessed be God for water! I love to hear it fall in the shower and dash in the cascade, and to see it rush from the ice-pitcher into the clear glass. Hand around this nectar of the hills, and drink, all of you, to the praise of Him who brewed it among the mountains. Thank God for water! Clear water! bright water! beautiful water! But I have to tell you there is a better refreshment even than that. There was a time when you were hounded of convictions. Sinai thundered. The wrath of God cried, "Fly!" Justice cried, "Fly!" Your own fears cried, "Fly!" Mercy

said, "Come! Come!" and you plunged like a hart into the water-brooks, and out of that flood your soul came up cool, and clean, and radiant; and you looked around, and said, "Come and hear, all ye that fear God, and I will tell you what he hath done for my soul."

There came a time of perplexity in your heart. You lost your property. The gold eagles took wings and flew away. Death, like a black hawk, swooped upon the family brood, and the children were gone. You measured your life from groan to groan, from loss to loss, from tear to tear. You said, from your distressed spirit, "Oh! that I had the wings of a dove, for then would I fly away and be at rest." From the depths of your fevered soul you called out, "Has God forgotten to be gracious ? Is his mercy clean gone forever? Hath he in his anger shut up his tender mercies against me?" As, when you have been walking in a thick wood on a hot summer day, you heard the dash off ountains and your spirit was cheered, so, while you were listening for the answer, the promise of God dropped cool and fresh and sparkling from the throne: "There is a river, the streams whereof shall make glad the city of our God." You rejoiced at the thought of the fountain. Your fevered soul thrilled with the cool touch, and you cried, "Eureka! Eureka! I have found it. Water! Cold water! Bright water! Everlasting water, bursting from the throne!"

I go further, and say that water typifies the Gospel by its freeness. On this hot Sabbath, when the cows break through the alders of the meadows to drink, how much do they pay for that which they drink? The humming-bird drinks from the wineglass of the honeysuckle. How much is it a glass? There is a tax on the city water, but no tax upon the great rivers that roll in perpetual volume to the sea. How much will the world pay for all the showers that this summer refreshed the corn-fields ? Nothing. It is free; and so is this glorious Gospel. It is free in its pardon, hope and salvation to all who will accept it. Here is a man who says, "I will pay for it, or I will not have it. I am an independent man; and I will give so much to have my soul redeemed. I will endow a college; or I will establish a school; or I will build a church, and in that purchase my salvation!" Or he says, "I will do some grand, good works; and God, I know, will accept them." God says, "Away with your good works as a purchase for salvation! Take this Gospel for nothing, or never take it. It is free."

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