nected with one scheme of redemption here wrought out, have been parts of one great history here developed, have been the members of one Church militant extending through all time from the creation to the judgment, and together constitute the one body of which Christ is the head, in a union the most intimate and divine, we cannot suppose them, in heaven, to be divided into particular communities, except on condition that these communities maintain among themselves the fellowship of the saints, and are known and endeared to each other throughout eternity. If, therefore, we suppose them to be distributed through a system of worlds with dividing spaces, we have only to recollect that they are to dwell in spiritual bodies, and to be equal with the angels, and that the angels, like Gabriel visiting Daniel, can fly with such exceeding swiftness that what seem to us now vast spaces form in reality no separation. As to the other alternative-our personal identity we cannot lose, for this is inherent in the soul. Nor does it seem at all probable that we shall lose the identity of our bodily forms. Some marks of bodily individuality we must have, and why not retain those in which we began our existence? Nay, the doctrine of the resurrection seems clearly to imply the retention of our original forms, purified only from those imperfections which would be inconsistent with the beauty of heaven. This seems also to be indicated in the case of Lazarus and the rich man. Abraham, Lazarus and the rich man are known in the other world by their earthly identities. The same is true of the transfiguration where Moses and Elias appeared.

That we should forget our earthly histories, or lose our interest in them, is wholly improbable in itself, and plainly at variance with Scripture. The soul in its perfected state cannot lose the memory, one of its noblest functions. And dwelling forever in the presence of the Redeemer, it cannot lose its interest in the past, without a corresponding decay of its peculiar interest in him, and being drawn away from the richest theme of eternal gratitude and praise. The joy of heaven must, in a high degree, arise from contrasting the earthly pilgrimage with the glory and peace of the immortal state. And what is the new song of the redeemed in that world of glory? Is it not of the redemption achieved on earth? "Thou art worthy, for thou wast slain, and redeemed us to God by thy blood out of every kindred, and tongue, and people, and nation"

Since, therefore, we shall retain our knowledge of the past with the liveliest interest, as the theme of our meditations, our praises, and our mutual discourse, we cannot be unknown to each

other even if our bodily forms should be changed But as we have good reason and warrant to believe that these shall not be changed, but only perfected, we may look forward to an immediate and joyous recognition. In heaven we shall not be married or given in marriage, but we shall not forget those to whom we were married. In heaven children shall not be born to us, but we shall not forget those who were born to us, or the parents who begat us. Even on earth we are conscious of a love in those relations far beyond any mere natural instinct-a love pure, spiritual and deathless. It is under the fostering and sanctifying influence of Christianity itself that this love is born. Christianity touches our mortal relations and makes them immortal. Husband and wife, parents and children, sisters and brothers, friend and friend, embracing each other in the faith, love and hope of the gospel, feel that they are united forever.

The anxieties which we are prone to indulge on this subject arise both from the extreme interest connected with it, and the shadowy and unsubstantial character which in our habitual thinking we attribute to the spiritual world. The former naturally leads us to torture ourselves with doubt; the latter renders it difficult to embody the future to ourselves as a reality. If the soul had pre-existed in a spiritual state, in contemplating its introduction into this world, it would probably have been filled with similar anxieties and fears. That form of being which alone we have tried appears to us the most real. In the unknown we seem to lose the real. To remove these apprehensions we ought to reflect that our being is progressive, and that in passing into the other world we are truly advancing to a higher and more pertect reality. We are now, indeed, treading upon what appears to us a solid earth; but it is really a changeable form of matter, and might be dispersed into invisible gases. We dwell in a substantial body, but it is doomed to decay, and must share the fate of all earthly matter. We are placed in many interesting relations, but they are relations which are continually liable to be broken. This is not, after all, a very substantial and real world to us. That which alone is permanent to us is the soul within us--our spiritual self. Death separates us from this changeable state, and introduces us into one which the gospel teaches us is unchangeable. The soul leaves nothing behind it but the earthly and imperfect. It carries with it all its noble faculties, its best affections, its immortal energies. It can lose no part of itself. That other world to which it goes is one perfectly adapted to all its wants, and opens to it the proper field for its

activities. Instead of going into a shadowy state, like the Hades of the ancient Greeks, it goes into its true and proper home. Instead, therefore, of feeling that it has lost anything when it arrives upon the heavenly shore, it will find, to its unutterable joy, that it has gained everything. That spiritual world will appear to it its natural abode, meeting all its wants, and presenting the most substantial forms of life. Ask, therefore, what you want in your noblest, most cultivated, and purest development, and be assured Heaven will give you all. You want a world of perfect beauty; you will find it there. You want an unfettered and unwearied intellect under the most auspicious conditions of development; you will possess it there. You want a heart purified from evil; there you will be holy to the full measure of your capacities. You want relief from care, trial, disappointment and sorrows; there all tears are wiped away, and the fountains of joy are overflowing. You want society of the refined, the noble, the true, the wise, the good; you will find it there-it is the society of the just made perfect. You want to be reunited in a deathless union with those whom you have loved on earth; if they have slept in Jesus, you will meet them there. Be assured nothing can be lost to you which is united to your soul in the faith and love of Christ. You want to renew particularly the intimacies which were dearest to you on earth; if these intimacies were sealed by the hope of

the Gospel, you will renew them there. There will be myriads of the redeemed; you will be united to them all, you will love them all. But an equally intimate fellowship with all is impossible. The very conditions of our social nature assign limitations to the most intimate fellowships. Among the myriads of the redeemed, our most intimate fellowships must take place where our hearts would most naturally, fondly and congenially select them. Many of our relations on earth are artificial and constrained. These we would not wish to renew. But where souls have become one by real congeniality, by noble, pure and true affection, death cannot unseal a bond laid so deep in the soul itself. This is something which it belongs to Heaven to perfect and perpetuate. The true principle, both in a rational and scriptural point of view, on which to judge of the heavenly world, is that to which we have already alluded, namely, that our being is progressive, and that, as such, whatever is pure, good and beautiful in us now, must reappear in heaven under more perfect forms. We leave nothing behind us but the dark, the imperfect, the unholy. Thought, imagination, taste, and all the affections of a gentle, pure and loving nature will be like flowers transplanted into a richer soil, under more genial skies. Our proper humanity will still remain in heaven with nothing lost, but everything ripened to perfection, and kindled in a more glowing life.

A DISTINGUISHED man in a large city died. During his illness his friends had merely said that he was "a little unwell;" and a few moments before the death-stroke the doctor observed to the nurse, in a decorous whisper, "His appearance does not please me." The man himself had been so completely deceived, as to the fatal nature of his disease, that it was only when he felt the hand of death upon him, that he started, and said, "I believe I am dangerously sick." A moment after, with a sudden horror, the thought thrilled through his soul, "Thou art dying." He struggled for a few moments-then all grew dark, and he sunk into an insensibility, which he supposed to be the commencement of annihilation. His friends stood horror-stricken and stupefied; and now, at length, they ventured to speak of his death.

The night winds in the lonely church-yard sighed heavily over the fresh grave mound of the departed; and above it, wavering in the moonbeam, a shadowy form seemed slowly and gradually disengaging itself from the earth. It was the soul of the dead, now breaking itself loose from its earthly tenement, as the butterfly frees itself from its withered and useless shell.

"And am I then still living," sighed the departed," and is there, what I never believed, a life after death? But how cold, how dreary is this solitude? Whither shall I go?" Here the cheerful voices of some travellers, who were passing by the grave-yard into the city, struck upon his ears, and stretching his arms towards them, in an imploring tone, he besought them to take him with them into the city; but he perceived that they neither heard nor saw him.

"Ah! I see how it is," he said; "I am no longer able to hold communion with living men. I am forever separated from the warm and breathing forms with whom I have hitherto lived. Whither then shall I go? Who will guide me in this cold and lonely world which I have entered?"

As he spoke these words an angel form swept downward from the skies and approached him; his figure was glorious, and his face marked with a strong, benevolent, yet somewhat sorrowful expression.

"Son of Adam," said he, "thy connection with life is over. Thy Creator hath placed thee in the territory of the spiritual world. To what part of it dost thou now desire to be led?"

At first the spirit seemed overawed by this address, but striving to recover himself, he replied

"You treat me with more consideration than I had reason to expect, in the event of my coming into such a life as this. In my past existence, priests were wont to threaten hell and eternal torments to people of my habits of life and turn of thinking. I am now glad that I could see farther through the subject than they, and that I always treated their threats with contempt. But as you ask me whither I would go, I say, let me remain in this world, as here are all the things in which I have ever taken any interest."

"You forget,” replied the angel,” “that yor can no longer hold any communion with men, o partake in any of their modes of life and enjoy

ment."

"Ah! too true,” replied the dead, "I should be only a forlorn wanderer among the scenes of former pleasures; and could I reveal myself to my friends I should be only an object of terror. Well, take me then into the better land with you."

"The better land," replied the angel, seriously, is large and wide. In my father's house are many mansions. To which of these would you be led?"

"To the most perfect of all, good angel," replied the departed.

"The most perfect," replied the angel, "is where God unveils his face-where Jesus is surrounded by the spirits of the just made perfect -where praises and hallelujahs to God and the Lamb are continually resounding."

The countenance of the departed expressed a feeling of ill-repressed disgust, as he answered

"Is there no other place but that, good angel? I never liked to hear about Jesus Christ, and I am sure it would be very repugnant to my feelings to be anywhere in his presence; and as to all this psalm-singing and pietistic jargon, I always had the utmost contempt for it, and do not find the least disposition to conform to it now. But bring me into the society of intellectual men, of philosophers and men of learning."

"There is no learning in this world but the study of God and of Jesus, as seen in all the multiplied forms of creation. If it displeases you to hear of Jesus, there is nothing that you can investigate here with any pleasure, for in Him are hid all the treasures of wisdom and knowledge, and all things are by Him, and for Him, and He is before all things, and by him all things do consist."

"But then, if I cannot associate with your learned men," replied the departed, "bring me, at least, to the society of artists; for I have spent much of my life in the contemplation of the fine arts, and always found in them the greatest enjoyment. I think I am fitted for company of

this sort."

"It is true there is such society here," replied the angel, "but the object of all art is to shadow forth, and express, by new images, the Divine beauty and grandeur, as it appears in all his works; but most of all as it is reflected from the face of Jesus Christ. If you can take an eternal delight in such exercises of the creative power, come with me."

"No, no," replied the dead, angrily, and shrinking back from the touch of the angel, "are these same ideas to haunt me everywhere? Take me to the society of the polite, the refined, the courteous; to such society, in short, as I have been accustomed to on earth."

"And what is refinement, but purity?" replied the angel. "Those whom you seek, are these same ones who stand with uncovered heart, beneath the eye of God, yet look up to his face without a fear; in whose bosoms every passing thought may be read, yet not a blush rise to the cheek, or one shrinking feeling lead them to draw away from God, or each other. If, with unveiled heart, you too can be happy among these, ascend with me."

"For Heaven's sake, no," replied the dead, with a mixture of terror and anger. "What! have all my thoughts seen!-my heart forever unveiled!—a fine eternity that would be for me!" and he laughed in a bitter, derisive tone. "You must know-you must see," he suddenly added,

"how you mock me, by presenting at every tur” these same ideas. You know I always hated and disliked all these images and associations; my whole life has been an effort to keep them out of sight; and do you suppose I can change in a moment so as to take pleasure in them?"

"I only tell you what is," replied the angel, in a grave and steady tone, "and again I ask, if all these things displease you, whither would you go?"

"Take me to those who feel and think as I do," rejoined the departed.

"You exile yourself from all good, in saying so," sighed the angel; "nevertheless, come with me."

Then, as with broad wing the angel swept upward, they came near to a fair golden star, where might be seen forms of unearthly beauty passing to and fro; and as they passed, they seemed to be communing in an earnest and loving manner, or singing hymns in a sweet, mild, full-hearted joyfulness; and though there were many different voices, yet there was no discord, but all blended together in a calm and soothing harmony. But the spirit of the dead rebounded back from the sphere of the star, as by some natural repulsion, and passed downward into a shadowy region. And now they drew near to another world, where were forms of men, walking slowly and conversing with each other, and ever and anon they looked upward with an earnest and imploring expression.

"In this world," said the angel, "are those who never fully in their life received the offer of the gospel by Jesus, but who died with a longing after truth, and an undeveloped germ of good in their souls. Here, by prayer and by searching, this germ is unfolded, till they ascend to the presence of God."

"Nay," said the dead, "this is not the place I am in quest of. I supposed here I should find an army of churches and priests, all in array to make a proselyte of me. No, let me go where all these things are never heard of."

"Then go,” replied the angel, "to thine own place;" and with these words the spirit of the departed sunk to a gloomy region that lay far below. The angel followed him not, but stood above. He then found himself joined by two illlooking figures, one of whom, laying hold of him roughly, saluted him hy a vile name, that reminded him of the sins of his youth. "How is this?" he exclaimed. "Where am I now? Are there no laws here?—no police to protect me from abuse?"

The angel from above answered, "That police which you found so convenient in the world you