THE AFFECTIONS.

WHILE looking for a subject with which I might occupy an hour of your time both pleasantly and profitably, it struck me that the great theme of all poets and story-tellers, namely, "the Human Affections," had rarely been dealt with by the lecturer. Why it was so I did not know. I at once decided that such a theme was as well suited for the lecturer as for either the poet or novelist, presuming that he understood the subject, and took some little pains to illustrate it. I very soon decided that (after having for so many years noted the emotions of my own heart, and marked the emotional storms of my fellow-travellers on life's journey, often reading the hearts of both men and maidens in their faces) I had a fair amount of knowledge on the subject, and might therefore be able to handle it in such a way as to throw some few rays of light into the minds and hearts of at least a portion of my hearers.

On resolving to make "the human affections" the theme of this lecture, I felt some difficulty in deciding what period of life I should select for my opening illustrations of their workings; for at every step of life, from the cradle to the grave, the human being is both the object and source of affection. When the child, ushered into the world in a state of helplessness, is laid by gentle hands upon a downy bed, and guarded by maternal vigilance from every ill, it breathes the air of fond affection;-when thoughtless youth is warned to shun the snares that lead to certain death, and pressed and wooed to

tread the path that leads to knowledge, wealth, and power, its monitors have all their inspiration from fond affection;— when the full prime of life would quaff the cup of earth's most heavenly bliss, the first ingredients in the draught are love and friendship-the ripened fruits of fond affection;-when years have silvered o'er the hair and furrowed wrinkles in the brow, the kind attentions which make light the cares of age come all from fond affection;-and when the latest tear is kissed from off the dying cheek, and the soft, deep voice of earnest prayer ascends to heaven for peace to the departing soul, that prayer is wafted on the wings of fond affection.

Where, then, shall I enter upon my subject? Shall I speak first of the affection which the child either receives or gives, or of that which is pressed upon the youth, and only sometimes presently returned? Or shall I rather speak first of the affections of ripe life, when love and friendship are in full bloom? I think I may perhaps best enter upon my theme by speaking of that period of life lying immediately between what I shall call schoolhood and manhood.

The season of budded youth, when the human being is beginning to think and act on its own authority-when life has begun to appear a serious journey-when the first clouds of care have darkened the young pilgrim's path-when the mind, in its unexperienced pride, seeks to understand all mysteries, and in its self-satisfaction rejects as false all that it finds beyond its own little comprehension-that is peculiarly the time of quiet evening walks with one, only one companion, with whom we speak of what we know, and more of what we do not know, and still much more of what we have a deep desire to know; and then we speak of what we don't believe, and of what we feel we never can believe; and then we ponder on the wondrous mysteries of life. We know not whence we came nor whither we are going; but this we know, this we feel, it is sweet to meet thus, it is sweet to talk thus, it is sweet to lie on gowaned bank, shaded by

DAWN OF FRIENDSHIP.

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vails of leaves, with eyes turned up to heaven's bright blue, and so to roam on tireless wings of wild imagination through all the realms of space, and to feel the silent worship rising in our hearts until our eyes o'erflow with tears of holy joy. It is sweet then to feel the first throbbings of that affection which shall soon ripen into friendship; it is then we intertwine our arms and gaze into each other's eyes, thinking the while that, if ever the great mysteries of life, which are at present so utterly incomprehensible, shall be made plain to us, we shall then look back to the sweet memories of our present strange unspoken ponderings.

It is at this period of life, and in the circumstances I have been striving to sketch, that our most disinterested affections begin to develop themselves. They have often taken a deep root, and so a firm hold of our hearts, before we become aware of the fact. I am sure that many of you, my hearers, can call to mind some early companion with whom you walked and talked for years, and never dreamed the while that that companion had any place in your heart. This you never discovered until some unforeseen event decided your parting. It was then, as the hour of separation drew near, that you felt the joy of meeting, the pain of parting; it was then you recognized that you were friends, and loved to linger in each other's company, and to speak of all your former speakings; it was then that you felt the first holy teachings of your affections; it was then that your hearts began to whisper, "Surely, for all our philosophic reasonings, such feelings as we have can never die—they are too sweet, too holy; surely we shall yet dwell in a land where there is no parting; surely we shall yet be permitted to know more than our present little span of knowledge!" It is thus that the whisperings of our affections put to rout the sceptical promptings of our ignorant and presumptive minds, and lead us to a longing after immortality.

I shall more fully illustrate this idea by sketching the

final parting of early friends. The scene is a darkened chamber, the sole occupants of which are two youths: they are both on the portal of manhood. William is seated by the bed on which his friend John is laid to rise no more: the bright spots upon the cheeks of the invalid proclaim the malady consumption. William, prompted by his love and pity, speaks hopefully of John's recovery. John softly smiles, and answers-"I am very weak, William; but, thank God, my mind is not impaired. I know that I am dying, and you know that I shall never rise from this bed; so you must not talk to me of life-you must speak of death.” William answers with big silent tears; and John continues

"What do you think now of our philosophic idea that we die and are no more, save that the atoms of which we are composed may go to the composition of other men who may prove wiser and better than we? If that idea be a correct one, how very soon you and I must part for ever." William answers—“ There is an everlasting life—I feel it, John, I feel it. The God of love could never have formed us capable of the emotions with which our hearts are now overflowing, and yet have doomed us to annihilation-no, no; an earthly father would not serve his children so, John: we shall meet again in heaven." The dying youth, whose intellect is brightened to strange acuteness by his deep interest in the matter, replies-"I have been thinking that, if God had doomed men to annihilation, as we make progress in knowledge, the fact must become gradually more clear, until we arrived at the certain knowledge that our present life is all, and that at any moment we may be snuffed out for ever; and so, as we advance in knowledge of the works and ways of God, we should have less of love for our Maker." He adds"The thought is absurd; our individual souls must live for ever. All virtue prays to God for life, all vice for annihilation will the God of goodness grant the prayer of evil, and turn aside from that of good? No, no, no!"

We leave the friends-their further converse we touch not here; our purpose by the sketch is served if it has clearly indicated the thought we meant it to convey-viz., That the growth and development of true friendship lead to a longing after immortality, and so point the mortal pilgrim onwards and upwards.

While such is the elevating tendency of true pure friendship, our affections lead us in a very different direction when they mislead us into an alliance with the untrue, the impure, the unholy. Any such companionship acts ever as a heavy chain which drags us down to the depths of folly, sin, and shame, and if not resolutely snapped asunder and cast far from us, will certainly prove our utter ruin.

I now pass from the high ground of true friendship to the still more lofty altitude of true love. It is on the dawn in the heart of this, the master passion, that such glorious emotions are born within the soul that earth and time are felt too limited for their full development. When we have met with the heart that beats responsive to our own, the eye that pierces to our soul, the voice whose every tone is heavenly melody to us when we have met with the being of earth with whom we would be alone, with all the universe shut out for ever, it is then we feel the fire within us that we know can never die—the flame that must burn on and on, ever brightening through all the endless ages of eternity. But I must curb my words, that would take wing, and in as simple language as I can command tell you all I know about love.

How, then, are we inspired by love? From the first moments of our mental life we begin to acquire a knowledge of the true, the good, the beautiful; and, according to our respective circumstances, we each form our own ideal of the lovely. Although both ancient and modern artists have favoured the world with models of perfect loveliness, there is really no fixed standard of beauty. Every style of feature and complexion has at some time, in some place, been accounted the