Honey is not sweeter in your mouths, and light is not more pleasant to your eyes, and music to your ears, and a warm, cosy bed is not more welcome to your wearied legs and head, than is the honest deep gratitude of the poor to the young Doctor. It is his glory, his reward; he fills himself with it, and wraps himself all round with it as with a cloak, and goes on in his work, happy and hearty; and the gratitude of the poor is worth the having, and worth the keeping, and worth the remembering. Twenty years ago I attended old Sandie Campbell's wife in a fever, in Big Hamilton's Close in the Grassmarket-two worthy, kindly souls they were and are. (Sandie is dead now.) By God's blessing, the means I used savedoor Kirsty's' life, and I made friends of these two for ever; Sandie would have fought for me if need be, and Kirsty would do as good. I can count on them as my friends, and when I pass the close-mouth in the West Port, where they now live, and are thriving, keeping their pigs, and their hoary old cuddie and cart, I get a curtsy from Kirsty, and see her look after me, and turn to the women beside her, and I know exactly what she is saying to them about Dr. Broon.' And when I meet old Sandie, with his ancient and long-lugged friend, driving the draff from the distillery for his swine, I see his grey eye brighten and glisten, and he looks up and gives his manly and cordial nod, and goes on his way, and I know that he is saying

to himself, God bless him! he saved my Kirsty's life,' and he runs back in his mind all those twenty past years, and lays out his heart on all he remembers, and that does him good and me too, and nobody any ill. Therefore, give your gratitude to your Doctor, and remember him, like honest Sandie; it will not lose its reward and it costs you nothing; it is one of those things you can give and never be a bit the poorer, but all the richer.

One person I would earnestly warn you against, and that is the Quack Doctor. If the real Doctor is a sort of God of healing, or rather our God's cobbler for the body, the Quack is the devil for the body, or rather the devil's servant against the body. And like his father, he is a great liar and cheat. He offers you what he cannot give. Whenever you see a medicine that cures everything, be sure it cures nothing; and remember, it may kill. The devil promised our Saviour all the kingdoms of the world if he would fall down and worship him; now this was a lie, he could not give him any such thing. Neither can the Quack give you his kingdoms of health, even though you worship him as he best likes, by paying him for his trash he is dangerous and dear, and often deadly,—have nothing to do with him.

;

We have our duties to one another, yours to me, and mine to you; but we have all our duty to one else to Almighty God, who is beside us at this very moment-who followed us all this day,

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and knew all we did and didn't do; what we thought and didn't think-who will watch over us all this night-who is continually doing us goodwho is waiting to be gracious to us-who is the great Physician, whose saving health will heal all our diseases, and redeem our life from destruction, and crown us with loving-kindness and tender mercies,—who can make death the opening into a better life, the very gate of heaven; that same death which is to all of us the most awful and most certain of all things, and at whose door sits its dreadful king, with that javelin, that sting of his, which is sin, our own sin. Death would be nothing without sin, no more than falling asleep in the dark to awake to the happy light of the morning. Now, I would have you think of your duty to this great God, our Father in heaven; and I would have you to remember that it is your duty to trust Him, to believe in Him. If you do not, your soul will be shipwrecked, you will go down in terror and in darkness.

It is your duty to obey Him. Whom else in all this world should you obey, if not Him? and who else so easily pleased, if we only do obey? It is your duty to speak the truth to Him, not that He needs any man to tell Him anything. He knows everything about everybody; nobody can keep a secret from Him. But he hates lies; He abhors a falsehood. He is the God of truth, and must be dealt honestly with, in sincerity and godly fear;

and, lastly, you must in a certain sense reward Him. You cannot give Him money, for the silver and gold, the cattle upon a thousand hills, are all His already, but you can give Him your grateful lives; you can give Him your hearts; and, as old Mr. Henry says, 'Thanks-giving is good, but thanks-living is better.".

One word more; you should call your Doctor early. It saves time; it saves suffering; it saves trouble; it saves life. If you saw a fire beginning in your house, you would put it out as fast as you could. You might perhaps be able to blow out with your breath what in an hour the fire-engine could make nothing of. So is it with disease and the Doctor. A disease in the morning when beginning, is like the fire beginning; a dose of medicine, some simple thing, may put it out, when if left alone, before night it may be raging hopelessly, like the fire if left alone, and leaving your body dead and in ruins in a few hours. So, call in the Doctor soon; it saves him much trouble, and may save you your life.

And let me end by asking you to call in the Great Physician; to call Him instantly, to call Him in time; there is not a moment to lose. He is waiting to be called; He is standing at the door. But He must be called-He may be called too late.

SERMON II.

THE DOCTOR-HIS DUTIES TO YOU.

You remember our last sermon was mostly about your duties to the Doctor. I am now going to speak about his duties to you; for you know it is a law of our life, that there are no one-sided duties they are all double. It is like shaking hands, there must be two at it; and both of you ought to give a hearty grip and a hearty shake. You owe much to many, and many owe much to you. The Apostle says, 'Owe no man anything but to love one another;' but if you owe that, you must be for ever paying it; it is always due, always running on; and the meanest and most helpless, the most forlorn, can always pay and be paid in that coin, and in paying can buy more than he thought of. Just as a farthing candle, twinkling out of a cottar's window, and, it may be, guiding the gudeman home to his wife and children, sends its rays out into the infinite expanse