but Thee? And there is none upon earth that I desire beside Thee."

According to our Lord, this love gives more than nearness; it carries nearness into abiding companionship, and, still more, into the "If a glorious mystery of the Divine indwelling. Hear His words:man love me, he will keep my words: and my Father will love him, and we will come unto him, and make our abode with him." The same thought, though with a beautiful difference, is in John, as nearly all the deep thoughts of the Master are reproduced, in some variety peculiar to himself, in the disciple whom Jesus loved. Man cannot see God, he tells us, but love does more and better than see Him. It brings Him down and brings Him near by the force of its wondrous attraction; opens the heart wide enough to receive Him; then holds Him, communes with Him, dwells with Him, not as a wayfarer that tarrieth for a night, but as a friend that sticketh closer than a brother. How is this? We may not understand it, and yet feel it. But even the understanding is not difficult, according to John's philosophy; for "God is love; and he that dwelleth in love dwelleth in God, and God in Him." Love knows love, as only love can; love cleaves to love, as only love may; love dwells with love, as only love would. Any other affection is distance from it, possibly opposition to it-standing apart by an interval proportioned to its whole difference of nature. But love so unites with love that the pulses keep time, making up the music of divinest harmony; rather, so unites with it, that separation is impossible so long as the love remains. Where is the mystery then, save as all knowledge terminates in mystery? A loving heart is drawn into fellowship with a loving God, a loving God into fellowship with a loving heart; one by the choice of supreme desire, the other by the consent of a gracious will. The fellowship becomes intimacy, and intimacy that sacred oneness of spiritual life by which, in the almost ecstatic language of the Apostle, each may be said to dwell in the other.

The nearness to God of which we speak is thus personal and conscious the nearness of an inward and an outward life. It is not being near only, for all men are this; so even are devils, and in a sense which aggravates their misery. It is living near, experimentally and actively, so as to realize all that is meant, or can be meant, in the phrase, walking with God.

Now this nearness has certain signs and proofs which infallibly attest its existence-which also evidence its degree. Some of these are outward and visible, but they derive their value maiuly from others that are inward and spiritual; and, of these spiritual signs, those are the most expressive and decisive, as having most of the man's real life in them, which are least voluntary and intentional. Character is best

adjudged, not by that which appears, for this may deceive; nor by that which is meditatively purposed or consciously attempted, for this may be only the effort of an occasion; but by that which comes up silently, unbidden, of itself, as it were-that which is born of stillness and repose, which follows in the train of habitual associations, and takes its complexion from the prevailing bent and disposition of the mind. This comes from below, as if to tell what is there; presses to the surface by a force as secret, yet as vital, as that which cleaves the hood of the buried seed, and makes the dull furrow green with life. It comes from the heart-from the abundance of the heart-when the heart, relieved from the constraint of will and the compulsion of circumstances, expresses itself freely, giving out its thoughts and desires spontaneously and naturally, just as flowers give out their incense when the dew is fresh upon them, or as weeds-for such hearts there aregive out their poison when the life has gone from them.

Nearness to God, or the want of it, may be thus attested. Other tests there are, as other proofs there must be. The man who is living near to God will long for a clearer sight of Him, for a fuller submission to Him, for a deeper communion with Him. He will labour, with conscious and strenuous effort, with all the energy of faith and all the agony of prayer, to pierce the vail which hides, while yet it reveals Him; to break through the obstructions of sense, and overcome the oppositions of self, that he may come even unto His seat. He will go to Sinai that he may speak with Him, even though the answer be given in thunder. If he may not see His face, yet, shaded by His hand, he may, and therefore must, see His back-parts-the retiring train of His glory. Though earthquake and fire attend the privilege, earthquake and fire are not unwelcome, providing the still small voice follow them. Where God is to be found—has promised specially to be -there he seeks Him; waits upon Him wherever His throne is set; presses eagerly up to Him, and cries out in song, though sometimes in sadness, because of the hidings of His face-" O God, Thou art my God; early will I seek Thee: my soul thirsteth for Thee, my flesh longeth for Thee in a dry and thirsty land, where no water is; to see Thy power and Thy glory, so as I have seen Thee in the sanctuary. My soul followeth hard after Thee: Thy right hand upholdeth me."

But not stronger, as the sign and proof of living near to God, is this conscious activity of faith, this resolute energy of desire, expressed in every form of purposed devotion, than is that gentler movement, serenely spontaneous and natural, in which the soul feels after God and finds Him, rather by the tenderness and purity of its sensibility than by the choice and effort of its will. It may be weaker, all the weaker for the very struggle, as this implies a recognized want not yet adequately supplied; while perfect repose, from settled inclination Godward, speaks rather of the blessedness of satisfied possession. As

is the nearness, so is this repose; for, with less effort, and often without effort at all, is fellowship with God maintained. The mind inclines to Him; has a steady look and leaning towards Him, as the plant to the sun from which it borrows its name; and this, of itself, without straining of any kind, engenders sweet and reverent thoughts of Him. Nearness is love, we have said; but love has no difficulty in thinking of its object. That which is most loved is nearest to the loving heart, moves it with a touch, stirs it with a breath, thrills it by its very presence, though unseen, as if by some magnetic force. The thought of it comes unbidden, and weaves itself mysteriously into all other thoughts. Whatever transpires is a suggestion of it; whatever is seen or done a remembrancer. It pervades the whole nature, lives through all the life, of him that loves. This, then, is true of God, to him that lives near enough to love Him supremely. He glides into the mind imperceptibly, or, rather, is never absent from it, though not always consciously realized. When other objects claim no definite attention, then He comes into view. When other influences, springing from man's lower necessities, lose their hold, then His presence is felt. Not without does He stand until His "locks are filled with the drops of the night;" not at the door is He found, knocking with earnest entreaty for an entrance. The heart is His home, and all the thoughts of love gather instinctively around Him. He is there ready for converse, when converse is possible. At morn and even; in repose, when the strain of business is taken off; in retirement, when the soul seeks to be alone; in the deep hush of the midnight watch, when the visible world is shut out; amid the radiant beauty and majestic stillness of summer woods and meadows; at any time, and at all times, when the mind is left to follow its own bent-to think out the thought that is nearest, while yet it is the deepest and the dearest-then God, in some form of tender relation or gracious ministry, comes into remembrance; is seen, in fact-because the pure in heart see Him-now in Nature, now in Providence, now in Christ; now as a Friend, whose counsel is desired; now as a Guide, whose hand is needed; now as a Sovereign, whose will must be done; always and ever as a Father and Saviour, most precious and most beloved.

The outward proof of living near to God corresponds to this inward one. It is silent, secret, unobtrusive-the proof of mysterious virtue and unconscious influence. It is passive, therefore, rather than active. And yet it is active too, otherwise it were not really passive; that is, it were not really at all. In an eminent degree it is active, most urgent, and most mighty.

When the Israelites had forsaken God for the idolatries of Egypt, "Moses stood in the gate of the camp, and said, Who is on the Lord's side? Let him come unto me." Decision, separation, profession, were

demanded. No serving of two masters, no halting between two opinions, no backwardness to make an open avowal. The challenge, often repeated, ever given from heaven, is answered at once, and answered continually, by him who is on the Lord's side. Whoever is not, he is, and people cannot mistake it. He declares himself boldly, when boldness is required; always meekly, though decisively; without pride or ostentation, yet with cheerful frankness and willing determination. The nearer he lives to God, the stronger is the evidence he gives of separation from the world. He acquires new courage to confess Him before men, because he acquires new motive. He may not win the honour of confessors of old, because persecution dare not light its fires or unsheath its sword; nor does he wish, else he were not a true confessor. But, though he may not die for the Lord, he lives for Him, and would even die if death were the alternative of denial.

When, after the death of Saul, the kingdom of Israel was given unto David, "the Spirit came upon Amasai, who was chief of the captains, and he said, Thine are we, David, and on thy side, thou son of Jesse: peace, peace be unto thee, and peace be to thine helpers; for thy God helpeth thee." On every one living near to God the same Spirit comes; in every such one the same Spirit dwells, producing exactly similar results. Not only is there separation from the world, but a visible union with the Church-an outward and open going over to the Lord's side. Not only is there a professed connection with it, but a steadfast acceptance of all the responsibility of such connection, in the support of its ordinances, and in furtherance of its work. That is not connection which is not vital, and that is not vital which is not active. The more life the more action. Not to David, but to David's Lord, is the profession made, and the prayer breathed, "Thine are we, and on thy side: peace, peace be unto thee, and peace be to thine helpers.” But the profession is practical, and the prayer is labour. The "side" is taken, not in words, but in deeds, as an ally takes another's side in battle. "Peace" is desired, but not with languid sentiment or in common-place phrase, but with a sincerity so resolved that work must be done in order to secure it. And what peace can there be, what peace either sought or found, except in progress and prosperity? Death there may be, but that is silence, not peace. To the "helpers" peace is desired, but the desire is such that help is given them to win it. That were not desire which died away in speech; nor even the shadow of it, but only the pretence.

Help to the Church is service to God, for that is the temple He is building, the vineyard He is planting. But all service, to be real and worthy, must spring from one principle, and be sustained by one motive. It were else a "vain oblation; " of whatever benefit to others, of none to him who offered it. This principle is love, "love in the Spirit :" and love to God, we have seen, is living near to Him in such degree

as the love is strong. The service will hence be just as the love, just as the nearness. When we love truly, wisely, strongly-when the whole force of our nature is drawn into this one passion, what is thought too precious as incense, or too painful as labour? To please, to serve, to honour the object of our affection, is simply to gratify ourselves. No work is burdensome, no duty unwelcome. Gifts are a consecration, and sacrifice a joy.

The application of this principle will measure our nearness to God, will gauge the depth of our love to Him. To live near Him and not work for Him, where work can be done, are things incongruous and impossible. To live near Him and work grudgingly or languidly, is just as inconceivable. It is to be near and distant, to live and not live, to love and not love at the same time. The labour will be as the love, since to every one that loves, or professes to love, He says, "Son, go work to-day in my vineyard." To-day, that is, every day, for the command is always being given. This love will not only constrain to the duty, but will, if supreme, make it much more than a duty. The work will be accepted as a privilege, will be sought as an honour. Love will demand it for the gratification of its own desire. Its very instinct will seek for it. If the desire grow less, it will be because the love grows cold. The strength of one will ever be as the ardour of the other. Whatever concerns the glory of God-whatever supports His authority as Sovereign, or fulfils His purpose as Saviour, love will do, or be willing to do-eager, even; so eager that labour will not be toil, nor gifts a sacrifice, but both a service of inward joy.

But, however active and demonstrative the proof of living near to God, it is not more real, perhaps not even more influential, certainly not more positive and decisiye, than the one which is passive and unconscious. It has indeed this special disadvantage as compared with the latter, that it may be simulated, and so completely as to deceive; while this latter, because spontaneous, cannot. Moreover, the passive is necessary to the due effect of the active; it witnesses to its sincerity, and contributes to its power. That work is most mighty which is done by one whose spirit is felt to be most holy.

This spirit is the breath, the life of him who lives near to God. He cannot live near without it. It is nearness. He has life, and has it more abundantly. That spirit is diffusive, and can no more be hidden than odour from a bank of violets. This life is self-demonstrative and self-communicative, and can no more be without effect than beauty can, or power. Its beauty is "the beauty of the Lord," its power is "power from on high." How then should it fail of influence? For who is not charmed by beauty? Who is not sensible of power, especially of that which is highest and best?

Sensibility gives us no choice; it is simply passive. We are compelled to feel when the chord is struck. The impression is sure when