regarded as only a place of preparation for the long travel now approaching.

What alteration of feeling about the new country likewise would be ours! Hitherto, its name might have been named ten thousand times for us, without awakening the smallest amount of interest. Whether the voyage to it was dangerous or safe, its inhabitants polished or rude, its soil fruitful or barren, its rivers shallow or full, its climate healthful or pestilential, we cared not. They were nothing to us, because we never deemed we should be anything to them. We had no thought of a personal occupation of the soil; and the link of sympathy to bind the country to our bosoms was therefore wanting. But now that we are to go thither, we feel a deep interest in all these. We desire to inform ourselves fully about them. We search all records of the country's history. We try to discover those who are able, out of their own stores of knowledge, to instruct us in our ignorance. We often think of the intervening journey, what is to be the preparation for it, and how it is to be made. We often think of the people of that land, and how we shall fare in their society. We often think of the employments awaiting ourselves, and how we shall be enabled to discharge them. In short, our faculties and feelings become engrossed with the one subject— the new, untrodden country, where soon, as now we are assured, shall be our permanent inhabitation.

In the rich flush of Summer, when the soil beneath our feet is carpeted with flowers-in the full ripening of Autumn, when the corn is bending towards the sickle, and the luscious fruit is weighing down the

trees

-we think of the fruit and flowers of the distant land, that ere long is to burst upon our sight. If we wander in the woodlands, we ask ourselves, will its scenery resemble that on which we are now gazing? If we walk by old Ocean's marge, we strain our wistful eyes across the watery expanse, as the highway to our new home. The land of our birth no longer confines our conceptions. They are busy. They are speculative about another country.

And yet one thing more may increase the fervour of our imagination. If friends and relatives have preceded us in this travel, and now, in that new country, await our coming-if we witnessed their parting, and went with them to the farthest limit we were allowed—we would, in preparing for our own journey, mentally review each attending circumstance of their leaving. We would remember with what things they had provided themselves; and would recall the deficiencies in some respects, and the encumbering weights in others, that we observed with them. We would note how many things, commonly considered indispensable, were found of no value on ship-board; and how others, little thought of by landsmen, were of inestimable price in the sight of those that do business in the great waters.

Assuredly, with such experience made our own, we would not consider we were wise in neglecting our own preparations. We would not be vain enough to imagine that talking of our journey was the same thing as getting ready for it. We would not deem that, by lavishly expending our means, we should be rich enough for the requirements of our new abode.

We would try to get rid of the engagements that bound us to our country, instead of multiplying them. Our finances would be carefully examined into. Our wardrobes would be inspected. Provisions would be purchased. Whatever was suitable to the new clime would be sought for; whatever was unfit, would be rejected. If we were going to the tropics, we would not accumulate thick clothings of fur. If we were to undergo the severity of a Canadian winter, we would not leave ourselves threadbare.

And shall this wisdom and prudence be all expended on a removal from one quarter to another of this little globe of ours; and yet man, so far-seeing in the things of Time, be an idiot about the things of Eternity? There are many, who profess and call themselves Christians, and who admit that they are strangers and pilgrims in this world, yet who think not of another country, nor are they preparing themselves for it. Travellers they are not. Their loins are not girded. Their shoes are not on their feet, neither is their staff in their hand. They are settlers. They have built their house; and, see! how they have decked it. What fair columns are these, what graceful statuary, what lovely paintings, what costly ornaments! And enter into conversation with the owner of these possessions. The better country, the heavenly, is never alluded to in his speech. His avocations are not like those of the inhabitants of that land. He speaks not their language. He employs not himself in their work. What! not to rest day and night, but to be evermore saying, "Holy, holy, holy, Lord God Almighty, which was, and is,

and is to come!" some employment indeed. He doth not give many moments to such worship now; and how could he endure it, age after age, continually?

Such would be to him weari

There is a way to that land, and he professes that he knows it, but he is not following in it. Jesus is the way; but this man is not walking with Jesus. He has not the same mind in him. He savours not of the same high and heavenly things. There is a robe, belonging to the inhabitants of that land—a white robe-but he wears it not. There is a song always sung in that land, but he has not yet learned that song. All his tones are of earth. All his

thoughts are of things seen, which are temporal.

And about the journey itself, oh! speak not of it to him, for he cannot bear to listen. It may be natural that he should shrink from the travel with apprehension; but he is doing nothing to lessen that feeling of alarm. A Companion, whose protecting care is sufficient for every need, has offered Himself; but the foolish man is not willing to entrust himself to His guidance. He is going to make the journey alone; and, with the dangers and enemies that are to meet him, assuredly he will be lost by the way.

He knows this. he tries to forget it. He turns to his gardens or his groves, his library or his dinner-table, and seeks in them oblivion of the terrible thought. Yet, to-night that journey may be entered upon, unexpectedly; or, if not to-night, to-morrow, or next week, or next month. It shall be, without doubt, very soon.

His heart tells it to him. But

Many years have been given him, and in their

H

progress he might have acquired the tastes and feelings that would adapt him to the new country. But these years, on the contrary, have been spent in strengthening habits that should have been abandoned, and in stamping his inner man with impressions that seem now to be ineradicable. Even if he reached the better country, he is not fit for it. Its pleasures would be no pleasures to him. Its inhabitants would be no congenial companions. He would turn with weariness from them. He never relished their society here. How could he delight himself with them in their own land?

Meetness for heaven does not mean a meriting of heaven. It only implies that He, who has prepared a place for His people, doth of His mercy also prepare His people for that place. Christ, our kinsman, has redeemed our forfeited inheritance; and, having acquired it, He holds it now at His own disposal. He gives it to His own kin. Their restored title rests with His purchase, and their possession with His gift. They have no other claim. But there is a meetness, (likewise His gift,) which ever accompanies the title, and proves its real communication. This meetness is the work of the Holy Spirit.

And it is accomplished in believers, in this present state. It was not, on Moriah's Mount, when the temple of the Lord was being reared, the stones that composed the building were cut and fashioned. They

* Levit. xxv. 24, 25; Ruth, chap. iv.; Jer. xxxii. 7, 8.