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VOL. XXXIII. NO. 26.
Contributions.
Libert} in Preaching.
“ Liberty ” has a meaning to a preacher
which it has to no one else. He who has
“ swung clear,” or has been “ in the brush”
in the discussion of some subject,is prepared
by either experience to appreciate the sweets
of “ liberty.” Sometimes when one preaches
there is a painful effort attending, not only
every paragraph but every sentence of ever/
paragraph and every word of every sentence.
At other times words flow into sentences,
sentences into paragraphs and paragraphs
into a finished sermon, like branches flowing
into creeks, creeks into rivers and rivers into
the ocean.
It is not likely that we will undervalue
this liberty; may we not overvalue it? The
preacher who always had liberty and the
preacher who never had it would be in an
equally unhappy plight. The temptation
of the one would be to think too much, and
of the other to think too little, of himself
and of his sermon. The devil might nse
either circumstance for the accomplishment
of his wicked purposes. When the eccen
tric Dow had preached on one occasion with
unusual success, and someone had remained
to him that he had preached a very fine ser
mon, “Yes,” said he “the devil told me
that before I left the pulpit.” A brother
of the atrabilious type of character, alluding
to the above anecdote once said to me:
“ Well, the devil has never yet tempted me
to believe that I had preached a fine ser
mon. ” Obviously this enemy of our souls
and our preaching knows the material on
which he works and the material with which
to work. Too great encouragement or too
great discouragement may either serve his
purpose in our confusion. The experience
of every preacher will fnruish examples of
the unaccountably different opinions which
he and his congregation form of given ser
mons.
I recollect on oue occasion to have given
wore than usual pains to the preparation of
my sermon. I wrote it out—memorized it
word for word. The congregation was large.
It was a quarterly meeting. The Presiding
Elder preached at 11 o’clock—had “liberty”
—“ swung clear.” Insteud of lunching and
chatting with the crowd during the inter
mission, I went to an adjoining grove and
read and prayed over my manuscript. When
8 o’clock came, I went into the pulpit and
got to work. • ‘ Work" is a well chosen word.
It was work indeed. If I earned my bread
that day it was by the sweat of my face. Af
ter getting through I was ashamed to go
among the congregation—ashamed to look
them in the face. I never wanted to hear
of that sermon again. But I did hear of it
—heard of it more than any sermon I ever
preached at that appointment. The people
said it was the best sermon I ever preached
there: some thought I beat the Presiding
Elder.
I remember another occasion of more re
cent occurrence. I had not given my usual
preparation to my Sunday morning sermon.
I had gone into the country for a little re
laxation. I came back plus relaxation minus
a sermon. Bat Sunday came and wit 1
the congregation. I recollect my subject.
It was about Ezekiel’s vision of the holy
waters issuing out of the temple. As it was
in the vision, so it was in my ease, the fur
ther I got the deeper the water got, until at
last I was at sea, without rudder or compass.
And yet the congregation listened—were
more than usually attentive. At the close of
the service several of the congregation came
up and thanked me for the sermon, and per
haps I heard more of it, and in commenda
tion, too, than of any single sermon I had
ever preached to that congregation.
These incongruities of judgment about so
plain a subject as the merits of a sermon
may be explained, in part, by considering
that a sermon may bo judged independently
of its composition or delivery. The preacher
speaks for God. God owns the truth spoken
and makes it mighty—fhiglity in spite of a
defective elocution and a halting manner.
And then the preacher may not be in a con
dition to j udge justly of his own effort. There
may be reasons superinduced by the condi
tion of his body and his mind, of a controll
ing character in affecting his opinions about
himself. God looks at our hearts, not at our
livers. We may feel dull and heavy while
proclaiming truths of tremendous impor
tance. But the truth is there whether
awkwardly anuouneed or eloquently uttered
and that truth, sanctified by the grace of
God, can and will accomplish the Divine
purpose in the salvation of our hearers.
Circuit Rider.
From the Sunday Magazine.
One Christ in Four Records:
A Popular Argument on a Point Recently
Started.
BY A MEMBER OF THE SCOTCH BAR.
( Continued. )
But we must now advert for a little to the
Gospel of John, as supposed to be different
from the Synoptics. Mow there is no doubt
on any side that the record of John is very
different from the other three. They all dif
fer among themselves, but this record differs
still more from all of them. It is written
by another man, it is written in another
style, it was writteu long after the others,
and it gives a different side, or at least a
different view, of the man of whom they all
speak. All these things are acknowledged
by all, and the question remains: Is there
uo more serious difference ? Does it merely
give another view of the same man, or are
they two so different conceptions that the
one may be historical, but the other cannot?
Are the two representations consistent or
inconsistent ?
Now of this let every man judge for him
self. All I can say is, that so far as my ex
perience in super-imposition has gone, I
have found them not only consistent, but
consolid and one.
The only part of this questiou, indeed,
on which I found serious difficulty is on the
minor matter of style—whether the style of
Christ’s speaking in John is not too differ
ent from his style in the other Gospels.
That there is a certain difference every one
admits, and that this difference is owing, at
least in some degree, to the peculiar mind
of the man through whom the thing is re
ported, is also perfectly traceable. We all
know that different men report to you—and
report with some substantial truth—the dis
course of some friend in a different way,
according to their own different styles and
modes of thought; and it is now acknowl
edged by the defenders of the doctrine of
inspiration that there is nothing in that
doctrine, even in its highest for*), to pre
vent this taking place in the case of the
four reports of the life of Christ. In fact,
if, as we ordinarily find, it requires the in
dependent report of several men to certify
to yon not only the real character, but the
real speech, of one whom they know but
yon do not, it cannot be surprising if God,
who, ex hypothese, has chosen this method,
and no other, for our getting our knowledge
of the character and life of his Son, should
leave us to it also on the very inferior ques
tion what were his diction and manner of
speech. * But on this question the difficulty
is not so great as may appear to a careless
student of the matter. We find that in
each of the Gospels the style of Christ’s
gpeeoh varies very considerably with the
Chtistiait % rfmtatf.
subject and occasion on which He happen
ed to speak; and the subjects and occasions
introduced by Matthew, Mark, and Luke
are, to a remarkable extent, different from
those dwelt upon by John. Matthew and
his brethren record chiefly the external ac
companying utterances of Jesus, and wheu
they do give discourse, it is not private,
profound, and esoteric, but it is bis ordi
nary conversation, or his popular preach
ing. And we know from the three Evangel
ists themselves that his popular style, which
they chiefly report, was different from his
other style, winch I think John gives. “He
spake all things to the multitude in para
bles,” they say; and it is not John, but the
Synoptics who tell us how Jesus used to say
to his nearest disciples, “Unto you it is
given to know the mysteries of the kingdom
es heaven, but unto them which are without,
all these things are done in parables.” But
even in the Synoptics there are subjects and
occasions on which the style of Christ rises
and deepens through all gradations until it
comes to sound to the dullest ear in exactly
the tone, and even the extreme tone,.ordi
narily reported by John. We read in the
eleventh chapter of Matthew that “at that
time Jesus answered and said, I thank thee,
O Father, Lord of heaven and earth, that
thou hast hid these. things from the wise
and prudent, and hast revealed them unto
babes. Even so, Father, for so it seemed
good in thy sight. No man knoweth the
Bon, but the Father : neither knoweth any
man the Father, save the Son, and he to
whomsoever the Son will reveal Him.” Now
that is the sort of utterance for which the
ear of John used to watch, though on this
occasion it was not he who caught it, but
another. And if it is plain from the Synop
tics themselves that the style of Jesus used
to rauge from didactic, like the Sermon on
the Mount, and parable, like the Prodigal
Son, and dialogue, like the Tribute Money,
to the deepest truth moulded in majestic
aphorism, then in that ease I have no longer
any serious difficulty with his style in the
Gospel of John. John may, indeed, round
oft' the utterances of his Master, and he
rolls out into continuous discourse what the
others would have reported as broken by
incident and dialogue : but it is throughout
the true esoteric style of Jesus of Nazareth,
his historical manner of utterance on all
high and deep subjects. It was not the dis
siple that created the style for the Master; it
was these highest utterances of the Master
that seized upon aud moulded this disciple.
I have sometimes thought that the utterance
of Jesus least affected by the manner of the
different narrators, that in which his idiom
is most purely transmitted to us, is his dia
logue; but the historical evidence for a
great variety aud range of style is too strong
for us to attempt to cut down that variety
even to this, which may seem to be its more
ordinary and typical form. And, indeed,
the breadth and magnitude of this man’s
nature, penetrating into and dominating
all departments of both life and thought,
are so extraordinary and so historically un
deniable, that one can have little doubt as
to the marvellous range of speech necessary
to express his thought, whose unseen scep
tre stretches at this hour over the most di
verse souls.
And this brings us back to tlie really im
portant question, Is the Jesns of John the
same with the Jesus of tlie other Gospels—
the same, or different ? Now probably the
fairest way of dealing with this question is
that which has been taken by tho Church
for the first 1,700 years of its existence—
not to pit one Gospel against another, but
to study them all with equal good faith in
the first instance, remark characteristics of
the person wherever they appear, and then
take the result, if a result—a personality—
is there.* But I see no reason for refusing
to take tho other course. Let us take those
very things in John which are claimed as
peculiar to him, and os making his Christ
differ most from that of others. Let our
destructive friends choose their own ground,
select their own objection, and see what is
made of it.
Now if there is any characteristic in the
Gospel of John that I find dwelt upon by the
few but foremost unbelieving critics whom I
have read, it is this—what they do not hesi
tate to call the intense egotism, or egoism, of
the Jesus whom he portrays. Thus Renan
cannot get over “liis manner of incessantly
preaching and demonstrating himself,” so
"far removed from the simple, disinterest
ed, impersonal tone of the Synoptics.”
Aud it must be admitted that this egoism,
this holding forth of himself, appears in
the Gospel of John in an unprecedented aud
infinite degree. “I am the light of the
world.” “I am tho broad of life.” “He
that believeth on me bath everlasting life.”
“This is life eternal, to know Thee, the only
true God, and to know”— me. These things
are without parallel or approach in the uni
verse; and they are of the essence of the
Jesus of John; and it is certainly true that
unless tho same characteristics are traceable
in the other Gospels in some way, Christi
anity falls to pieces for want of an histori
cal Christ.
Now, on sueli a question let no man ac
cept the word of his fellow-man, especially
when he can sit down any evening and study
it lor himself. Eacli must speak to what
he has found. But I have this to say, that
on beginning to study the life of Jesus,
struck wit li one and another and another
characteristic (some of which I have already
mentioned), there was one which beyond
all others impressed itself upon me,' and
came back again and again with au endless
power—viz : tlie intense consciousness of
self, and the perpetual reference to self, that
you find in every chapter, iu every incident
—I had almost said iu every line—of tho
three Gospels. It is something unequalled
in literaturo and unequalled iu history.
Every man he meets he speaks to of God;
but he never fails to put himself between
God aud him iu a way that no human being
before or since lias ever ventured to do. He
is confessedly the great moral teacher; but
the continual aud pervasive and absolute
intercompenetraiion (for I must coin a word for
it) of the moral with the personal—with the
reference to himself— in all his teachings,
and especially in his dealing with every sin
gle individual that ever he met, is some
thing that separates him from every moral
teacher that the world has ever seen or even
conceived. Try it for yourself—put aside
John—take the three Gospels—read the life
of this Galilean peasant—and see if it is
“impersonal” in any corner or fraction of it.
On this, as on all these questions, it is of
great importance to observe that it is the
more subtle proofs that are the most con
clusive. We would rather not refer stu
dents to such passages as where Jesus says
in Matthew, “Gome unto me, all ye that
labour and are heavy laden, and I will give
you rest.” I decline to use arguments that
would go through a three-inch board. I
speak rather as to intelligent men, who
have some practice in literature and some
perception in character—who can judge of
the tone of a chapter, the emphasis of an
utterance—and to whom a casual action, or
an indirect word, or even the absence of a
word, is as significant as the broadest state
ment, and more conclusive. To such men
I would say, take any one of the character
istics that you find most strongly and pecu
liarly stated in John, and by it try any of
the other Gospels—nay, more, I am inclin
ed to say, any part of them. My own im
pression is that there is scarcely any chap
ter in the three Gospels in which this under
tone of wliat I may call the Christ of John
is not so audible throughout to any intelli
gent ear, as in the first place to be quite
conclusive, and then to yield for all our days
thereafter a deeply interesting study.
For example, let us keep to this point of
the self-assertion in John—the constant ref
erence by Jesus to his own personality. Now
what is the portion of the other three Gos
rjls most remote from this sort of thing ?
think you will find that it is that part of
Matthew that contains the Sermon on.the
*And tliiß— to compare very great tilings with
very email —is the course which I endeavored to
take with the illustrations already given. They
were not taken with any special reference to
John’s Gospel—rather otherwise. I took them as
they struck me In studying the earlier part of the
life In the four Gospels. But all of them (the neg
lect of popularity —the thirst for influence—the
moral dealing with every one —the burdeu on the
mind—the sense of restraint—the devotion to
mankind—and the strange independence, etc.), all
of them, on looking back, strike me as ebaraoter-
Istics perhaps eminently traceable in John, though
I had more In my mind the incidents in which they
historically come out in the others.
Mount. That is the most didactic, and the
least personal, part of the whole life of
Christ. Very well. What Is the remarka
ble thing in that sermon ? Is it the beauty
of the morality merely ? It is no such thing.
The morality' is not so different from the
morality of Socrates, of Confncius, of the
human conscience, and of the Old Testa
ment. That was not the new thing in it.
Take any heathen moralist, and give him
this discourse to read. He may and will
admire the purity of its teaching; but twen
ty to one what he will be struck with is the
personal element in it. Who is this man,
this Jew, that dares so to speak ? “Not
every one that saith unto me, Lord, Lord,
shall enter the kingdom of heaven.” The
very first word, and key-note of it, is regal :
“Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is
the kingdom of heaven.” And be it re
membered, that it was this tone of authori
ty, of self-assertion, this utterance as of
one outside and above the world, that, as we
have it expressly recorded on this oocasion,
chiefly struck the people. ‘•'When Jesus
had ended these sayings, the people were
astonished at his doctrine; for Ho taught
them as one having authority, and not as
the scribes.” Well might they be astonish
ed. The scribes could teach morality, and
that from a divine source; but what scribe
ever uttered in their hearing words like
these, which I find on the first page of this
address, “Think not that I am come to des
troy the law and the prophets—l am not
come to destroy, but to fulfil ?” I cannot
avoid coming to the conclusion that this,
the most impersonal part by far of the whole
record of Christ’s teachings, is more per
sonal than any document or any address by
any other man—has not only more of the
speaker’s peculiar doctrine, aud thus of in
direct characterization of himself—but has
more reference to himself, more self-con
sciousness and implied self-assertion, than
you can find in the rest of the world’s liter
ature. And try any other chapter in Luke,
in Mark, in Matthew, and see whether you
shall find it otherwise.
And then take any other strong charac
teristic of the Jesus of John (such as “the
pre-occupation of the apologist” which Re
nan ascribes to Him, and which is a perfect
ly just ascription when we remember how
constantly He speaks of himself as “Wit
ness”), and try by it the Christ of the others
in all parts of their Gospels.
Then, when we have finished the reverse
process, suppose we go back to the straight
forward one. Take up the three Evangel
ists by themselves, aud if you have satisfied
yourself that there is no inconsistence be
tween them and John, go a step farther, and
ask what is the positive relation between
them ? And I put it to any man who studies
them with candour, without prejudice either
against or for the results, and who at the same
time is a man of an inquiring or contem
plative turn of mind, are not these Gospels,
far from being inconsistent with the fourth,
so consistent with that fourth as absolutely
to require it as their complement? If you
had the three alone, would it not be neces
sary for you to construct something like the
fourth in your own mind ? Is it not John
that explains the others, ; harmonizes them,
rationalizes them, completes them, unites
them, consolidates them ? But how does
he do it ? Not by his divine philosophy.
There are not two pegs of John’s own phi
losophy in his Gospel. It is by the man
whose deepest nature and inmost mind he
has power to reveal. A character of such
extraordinary contrast and qualities as is
depicted in the three Gospels could never
bo explained by any amount of mere talk,
however profound. And so that old man at
Ephesus, after Luke and Mark and Matthew
had fallen on sleep, was led “in the spirit”
to record, not a philosophy, but a person
ality; and what lie has left in liis book is
first and before all things an intense person
ality. And now it turns out that that per
sonality, more deeply seen into by those
large eyes (rather perhaps those loving eyes),
is in tlie'profoundest harmony with all the
others —with each of the others—with every
minutest characteristic in each of the others.
Indeed, we foresee that this objection,
founded on the difference between John
and the Synoptics, will very soon be con
verted into an argument of the greatest
power in favour of the historical Christ.
John does differ from the other Gospels,
both in style and in their points of view;
and it is precisely this difference that makes
the proof of central identity so overwhelm
ing. If he were as like Matthew as Mark is,
or as like Mark as Luke is, we should be de
prived of an immense historical advantage.
He iB different—so different, that if upon
inquiry his Christ turns out to be identical
with the others, it is quite incredible that
his story, and theirs too, should not be true.
This you see, is just anew form, but it will
be a very useful form (and for it we are in
debted, as for many good things, to our
sceptical friends), of that greatest of all
arguments derived from the historic indi
viduality of Christ. When you think.of the
recorded life of the Messiah, the prodigious
magnitude of it, the vivid contrasts, the
vast extremes, the intense incongruities that
are involved in his Divine claims and hu
man life, one thing you feel to be certain—
it is beyond all genius to create such a char
acter in anything like a natural or believa
ble form. Supposing any one, even Shake
speare to attempt it, it would be the vaguest,
the thinnest, the most impersonal, or else
the most broken-backed, of all alleged his
torical characters. Even among men on the
common ground of humanity, when we
come across one of great largeness and
breadth, like Goethe, we are conscious of a
dreary feeling, as if we were contemplating
Salisbury Plain, or the Carso of Gowrie, or
a subject rather than a man—something ut
terly remote from individuality. But even
Goethe’s was a narrow and limited life com
pared with that of the Christ of Nazareth,
which penetrated every sphere, and calmly
professed to include not only all harmony
in all its extremes, bnt all the Divine nature
too. The character of Jesus, as given in
the Gospels, if you take it to pieces bit by
bit, in the manner of an inventory, is a vast
assemblage of incongruities, monstrosities,
and extremes—a bundle of contradictions.
And yet (and this is the proof which the
world will never get past), as it is presented
to us in history—in the narratives themselves
—it is one character—profoundly one; the
most natural, the truest life that we have
ever seen—absolutely one—a perfect crys
tal of individuality. There is no character
in all history of which the world has so in
tense and vivid conception as that of Jesus
Christ. And if so, have we ever thought of
the strength and intensity of personality
which must be there in order to unite for us
such infinite extremes ?
And here comes in the argument which
our friends supply us with who insist on the
different points of view from which Mat
thew, Mark, and Luke each speak; and the
opposite point of view from which John
speaks. It is to a great extent true; but it
strengthens the argument from the absolute
individuality of the character of Christ
twenty or a hundred fold. And against this
individuality they have no decent arguments
at all. We have treated this question as
one of which the ordinary unlearned Eng
lishman has quite the power of judging,
and to him it has been referred; but it is
one on which Strauss and Renan, for exam
ple, powerful as they may be in some other
regions, seem to stnmble into mere betise.
And when you have to apply such a word to
some of the cleverest men in Europe, there
is no possible way of accounting for it ex
cept by supposing an amount of prejudice
which is fatal to historical inquiry. Nor is
it denied that they begin their inquiry with
a foundation of prejudice, not only against
miracles, but against the appearance of the
Divine in human character, of human affairs
at all. And so they fall into one of the two
pits—either, like Strauss, explain away into
nothing the most powerful individuality in
all history, or like Renan, give us a Jesus
that is a mere creation of the studio—desti
tute, I think, of the whole historical charac
teristics of Jesus—and of which, whether
you admire it or not (and there is a great
deal to admire), yon have simply to say,
“That’s not He.”
Bnt, in truth, unbelieving critics have
come to the wrong region when they come to
the life of Jesus Christ. The love-sharpen
ed eyes of millions have been before them,
and their glance is slight and careless, com
pared with the infinitely eager scrutiny
which that individuality has undergone
through all these past centuries. On whose
PUBLISHED BY J. W. BURKE & GO., FOR THE M. E. CHURCH, SOUTH.
MACON, GA., FRIDAY, JULY 1, 1870.
face have the eyes of the dying been fixe£-
for a thousand years.and more ? To whose-,
ear came the prayer of the destitute, and oi
him that had no help of man at all ? And
not in weakness aud extremity alone did
they seek to prove Him, but when the great
est of our race, their intellect purged by
mental agony, bent their whole souls to
meet and deal with this one Jesus Christ, in
the crises of their histories, when eaoh felt
that his eternity depended on the expression
of that face—in sorrow and desolation,
when they retreated from the world to be
alone with Him—in high calm communicat
ed joy, because He was found with them.
Had there been any discordancy, or segm,
or rift, or flaw in that individuality, as it
comes fcdown to us historically, think you
that it would not have cracked with a great
rent when the pressure of some soul’s agony
bore upon it ? But this has never happen
ed. Men have wrestled with the whole
mighty force of individual unbelief against
the character of Christ, but never been able
to disintegrate it. The only men who have
ever fancied they were able to do so were
men who were not in earnest about it at all.
The church which has sat at his feet and
looked into his face for two millenniums,
troubled about many things, has never felt
any difficulty on this point. And the nearer
and more closely any one in the church has
carried his earnest scrutiny, the more in'
tensely have the oneness, the personality,
and individuality of Christ transfixed aud’
perhaps transformed him.
It is true, however, to conclude; for we do
not wish to lapse into anything of the na
ture of general preaching, but to stick
rather to the view of the question proposed
at first, as beiug one the most interesting in
all literature, and the most important in all
history. Yet, looking at it purely from this
point of view, it may be allowed to com
mend it to young men especially—to those
who find it a noble thing to stand on the
threshold of a great subject, and to have
years of youth to devote to it. To such I
would say, Take no word written here as
true, but judge of all for yourselves. The
years that you give to this study will bo la
den with golden sheaves. The study of any
individual is infinite—(it differs from other
studies in this, that it is, I believe, strictly
infinite), aud much more the study of such
a personality as this —a beiug with marvel
lous relations to all things —whose simplest
words stir the deepest abysses in the human
spirit—who has drawn into Himself all the
love that this world has had to spare-and
yet who comes to each fresh generation as an
unknown stranger, and stands at the door,
and knocks. I call this question a question*
of literature, a question of history, and stu
diously use common words; but in looking
at it even so, it may happen to some of us
as to the son of Kish, who sought his
father’s asses, and found a kingdom. The
influence of one human life, one human
soul, upon another, has been often enough
marvellous. The memory of a father, of
“noble powers nobly used,” has shone be
fore one like a star; and I have felt myself
face to face and soul and soul with a man
whose bones have been crumbling in the
sand of Northern Africa these fourteen hun
dred years. There is a story somewhere of
a young knight who loved a northern prin
cess, and was loved by her, till death cnt.
her down in her pure youth, and he rode
away through the world. But by some
strange gift of Heaven to his sorrow, in any
great danger or crisis of his life, he had but
to look up to the sky, and his dead love,
Aslauga. looked down upon him for a space,
and he knew her for an angel strengthening
him. And so, in all time of his peril, in all
time of his distress, ever that fair young
face shone out upon him, standing between
him and-temptation, between him and sin,
between him and evil, till Death, the greajt
divider, came to unite the twain. There is
a power in a dead face, and there is a power
in the recorded personality of one whom
we have never seen. And if the historical
image of Christ were to have such an influ
ence upon any reader as this, or a far greater,
it would only be according to the principles
of human nature. But tne history certain
ly suggests that there was in flie connection
of his followers with Jesus more than this.
To .Simon the son of Jonas, who loved and
confessed Him, he said, “Blessed art thou,
Simon Bar Jona, for flesh and blood hath
not revealed it unto thee, but my Father
which is in heaven.” Every one who is not
either a very young man or a very foolish
man knows by observation nnd experience
that mere intercourse with the historical
Christ does not necessarily change or purify
the soul; and yet intercourse with the his
torical Christ is the road, the way towards
doing it—in which wo do it. And I sup
pose what we must keep before us chiefly is
that great word, “This is life eternal, to
know thee the only true God, and Jesus
Christ, whom thou hast sent.” So it was
He spoke beside the brook Kedron; but is
the word true for all time ? is it true for us
liPre in the afternoon of the nineteenth cen
tury ? Let us recall that utterance to another
friend, so striking, and (to use a word often
used in this paper, we hope without irrever
ence) so characteristic of Him, “Because
thou has seen me, Thomas, thou hast be
lieved Blessed are they that have not seen
me, and yet have believed.”
The Two Hearts.
S*3me time ago, I dreamt that I was in a
kind of laboratory, in the midst of which
sat a venerable man, deeply occupied in ex
amining something on a table near him. I
drew near, and on looking closer discovered
he was employed in the dissection of a hu
man heart. At the first glance it appeared
fair to the view; but the operator whose
name was Truth, applied to it a small mir
ror of exquisite workmanship, and invited
me to examine it. I did so, and was sur
prised to find the heart of a very dark color,
and in many places deformed; it felt also,
when I touched it, very hard and cold.
“You seem astonished,” said the surgeon,
“know you fiot that the heart is deceitful
above all things, and desperately wicked;
and this is a heart in its natural state. Tho
name of this Mirror is the Law of God, aud
it is so perfect, as invariably to detect the
slightest flaw. He then pointed out to me
certain words engraven very legibly on the
surface of the heart. In the most promi
nent part I distinctly read (for it was in
strong characters) the word Self. Lower
down were Pricle, Anger, Hypocrisy, Am
bition, Craft, Ararice and many others of a
similar kind. In one corner my director
informed me I should find the motives; but
they were so heaped together, and in such
a confused state, that I was unable to dis
tinguish them. He then took a sharp kind
of probe, called the. word of God, and by it
dividing the mass, laid them out in order
before me. Heb. iv. 12.
I turned away from the picture in sadness
and disgust, “Yes,” said he, “as in water
face answeretli to face, so the heart of man
to man. The dim light afforded by reason
and conscience is too often obscured by the
shades of passion and self-love; no light but
that of Truth is adequate to the discovery. ”
“But cannot this heart be rectified ?”
asked I eagerly.
“No,” replied the old man, “but anew
one may be substituted, There’s but One
who can effectually change it, and he prom
ises to give new hearts to those who seek
them. I have a heart of his workmanship,
if you like I will show’ it to you.”
He then produced, in careful preservation,
a heart widely different from the other, in
fair color, and soft to the touch ; appearing
in some parts, as though it had been broken,
On inspecting it more narrowly for tho
words I had seen on the-other, I found in
large letters (what the surgeon informed
me was the first impression the Maker
stamped on it and with his own private
seal) the word Love. Below, indeed, I per
ceived Self, but on a level with it was
Neighbor. And while in the former every
thing relating to God was omitted, here in
every part, iu the most inward recesses, I
met His name. Faith, hope, devotion, hu
mility and many other graces were there;
but I should have very imperfectly dis
tinguished them, without the assistance of
a lamp, called good works.
I noticed, however, a few spots here and
there, which I remarked to my companion.
“These,” said, he, “are the cause of great
soitow to the owner of the heart, tor they
open again those wounds in it which you
have perceived, and often erase the word
Peace which had been stamped upon it, la
spite of all his efforts these stains are ever
coming; there is but one fountain in which
they can be cleansed—a fountaiu rising in
Mount Calvary, and called the blood of
Christ.”
I was proceeding to make further inqui
ries, when, to my sorrow, I suddenly awoke,
and found it was only a dream.
The Forgiven Debt.
One of the old school merchants of Bos
ton, very extensively engaged in commerce,
and located at Long Wharf, in that city,
died intestate, at the age of seventy-nine.
His eldest son administered upon the estate.
Among his papers a package of considera
ble size was found after his death, carefully
tied up, and labeled as follows:
“Notes, due bills and accounts, against
sundry persons down along shore. Some of
these may be got by a suit or severe dun
ning. But the people are poor ; most of
them had fisherman's luck. My children
will do as they think best. Perhaps they
will think, with me, that it is best to burn
this package entire.”
About a month (said the uarrator of this)
after our father died, the sons met together,
and, after some general remarks, Our eldest
brother, the administrator, produced this
package, read the superscription, and asked
what course should be taken in regard to it.
Another brother, a few years younger
Ilian the eldest, a man of strong, impulsive
temperament, unable to express his feelings
'by words, while he brushed the tears from
his eyes with one baud, by a spasmodic jerk
of the other toward the fireplace indicated
his desire to have the paper put in the
flames.
It was suggested by another of our num
ber that it might be well to make a list of
our debtors’ names, aud of the dates and ac
counts, that we might be enabled, as the
intended discharge was for all, to inform
such as might offer payment, that their debts
were forgiven.
On the following day we again assembled.
The list had been prepared, and all the notes,
duo hills nnd accounts, whose amount, in
cluding interest, exceeded thirty-two thous
and dollars, were committed to the flames.
It was about fonr months after our father’s
death, in the month of June, that, as I was
sitting in my eldest brother’s counting
room, waiting for an opportunity to speak
to him, there came in a hard-favored, little
old man, who looked as if time and rough
weather had been to the windward of him
for seventy years. He asked if my brother
was not the executor. He replied that he
was the administrator, as our father died
intestate.
“Well,” said the stranger, “I have come
up from the Cape, to pay a debt 1 owed the
old gentleman."
My brother requested him to be see ted,
being at the samo moment engaged.
The old man sat down, and puttiug on his
glasses, drew out a very ancient wallet.
When he had thus done -and there was
quite a parcel of notes— as he sat, waiting
his turn, slowly twisting his thumbs, aud
his old, meditative eyes fixed upon the floor,
he sighed; and I well supposed the money,
as the phrase runs, came hard, and secretly
wished the old man’s name might be found
upon the forgiven list.
My brother was soon at leisure, and asked
him the common question, his name, etc.
The original debt was four hundred and
forty dollars; it has stood a long time, and,
with the interest, amounted to eight hun
dred dollars. My brother went to his table,
and after examining the forgiven list atten
tively, a sudden smile lighted up his coun
tenance, and told mo the truth at a glance
- the old man’s name was there !
My brother quietly took a chair at his
side, and a conversation ensued between
them.
“Your note is outlawed. It was dated
twelve years ago, payable in two years.
There is no witness, and no interest has
ever been paid. You are not bound to pay
this note; we cannot recover this amount.”
“Sir,” said the old man, “I wish to pay
it. It is the only heavy debt I have in the
world. I should like to pay it;” and he
laid the bank notes before the administrator,
and requested him to count them over.
“I cannot take this money,” was the re
ply-
The old man became confused. “I have
cast simple interest for twelve years and ft
little over,” said he; “I will pay you com
pound interest, if you say so.' The debt
ought to have been paid, long ago; but
your father, sir, was very indulgent; he
knew I had been unfortunate, and told me
not to worry about it.”
My brother then set tho whole matter
plainly before him; and taking the bills, re
turned them to the old man, telling him that,
although our father left no formal will, he
had recommended to his children to destroy
certain notes, due bills, and other evidences
of debt, and release those who might be le
gally bound to pay them. For a moment
the worthy old man seemed to be stupefied.
. After he had collected himself, and wiped
a few tears from his eyes, he stated that,
from the time he had heard of our father’s
death, he had raked and scraped, and
pinched, and spared, to get the money to
pay this debt.
“About ten days ago,” said he, “I had
made up the sum within twenty dollars. My
wife knew how much the payment of the
debt fay upon my spirits, and advised me to
sell a cow, and make up the difference, and
get the heavy burden of my mind. I did
so; and now, what will my old woman say?
I must get home to the Cape, and tell her
this good news. She’ll probably say over
the very words she said when she put her
hands on my shoulder as we parted: ‘I have
never seen tho righteous forsaken, nor his
seed begging bread’ ”
With a hearty shake of the hand, and a
blessing upon onr father’s memory, he
went upon his way rejoicing.
After a short silence, seizing his pencil,
and casting a few figures, “There!” ex
claimed my brother, “your part of the sum
would be so much; contrive a plan to con
vey to me your share of the pleasure de
rived from this operation, and the money is
at your service.”
Great. Sermons.
In an article iu the last Christian Union,
discussing the reasons why great religious
assemblies so seldom leave behind them a
spiritual blessing, Henry Ward Beecher
enumerates as one of them the character of
the preaching on such occasions in words as
truthful as “taking :"
It is the custom to assign the pulpits of
all churches in the neighborhood to the
ministers from abroad. But, too often, the
ministers only preach their “Great Ser
mons;” aud of all unprofitable preaching
the preaching of staple “Great Sermons” is
the most brilliant and afflictive. It is tell
ing no tales out of school to say that minis
ters often have a park of superior artillery,
kept for great occasions, of a range aud bore
far exceeding that usually employed. These
parade sermous have been got up at the ex
pense of whatever the man knew. They are
usually wonderful sermons. They become
as well known to the sermon-hearing com
munity as the names of ship-of-war or of
distinguished race-horses. We have heard
men, in the innocence of their hearts, talk
ing the matter over.
“What did A give—his Dew sermon ?”
“No; his ‘Wild Boar of the Forest.’”
“Is 8. going to preach ?”
- “Yes, in the morning."
“What has he got ?”
“His biggest thing is the ‘.Cherub.’ You
ought to hear that. It’s splendid. There’s
another one alxnit as good -it’s his Fish
hook sermon.”
Thus, - one has his “Abraham,” another
his great “Judas” sermon, another his best
on the “Destruction of Jerusalem,” while a
fourth is never so fine as on the “Last Judg
ment.” Forty or fifty clergymen preaching
great sermons in city churches for two or
three Sundays are enough to. create a whole
year’s backsliding.
Covetousness. — The covetous man is like
the spider. He does nothing but lay his
nets to catch every fly; gaping only for a
booty of gain; so yet the more that while lie
makes nets for these flies he consume),li his
own bowels; so that which is his life is his
death. And yet he is the least to be pitied,
because he makes himself miserable. Like
wicked Ahab, the Bight oi another man’*
vineyard makes him sick at heart; he wants
it for himself. He hatesjhis neighbor as
bad as he is hated by them; and would sell
his best friend, if he had one, for a groat.
He pines his body that he may damn his
soul; and whenever disappointed of his ex
pected gain, through the accursed discon
tent of his mind, he would dispatch himself
but that he is loth to cast away the money
for a cord.— Bishop Hall.
About Dress.
Last Sunday I observed two young ladies
coming out of Sabbath-school together, but
presenting so marked a contrast, that the
impulse was quick to institute comparison. -
One was' dressed neatly, nicely, consistent
ly, and would be known as a lady on sight
wherever she might be seen. There was
nothing about her dress to divert the atten
tion of her scholars ; nothing a thoughtful
man, ready for a sensible and prudent wife,
could object to; notliiug to contrast discord
antly with the services of the sanctuary.
Her attire was appropriate for the parlor,
street, andcommuuion service. I could not
but say to her father, as I walked along with
him after church, that he was fortunate in
having a daughter of sueli good sense.
Tho other young lady reminded me of
more or less than I would like to proclaim
on the house-tops. I may say, however,
that the idea of a costume got up on her
elaborate and bewildering style, “adorning
the doctrine of Christ” in the way of teach
ing children the precepts of the" meek aud
lowly one, or explaining the obligations of
the Holy Word, which makes such express
points against the vanities of tho world, tho
pride of life, etc., etc., struck me as so posi
tively absurd, that it passed my compre
hension how two ideas so utterly irrelevant
and incompatible and absolutely opposite as
the conception, arrangement anil adornment
of such a costume and the duties of a Sun
day-school teacher could ever get together
iu one head. Certainly, no child of mine
should be “taught” (?) by sueli a compound
of vanity, frivolity and inconsistency; and
if I were to hear that a worthy young mail
whom I esteemed was about to marry her,
I would surely claim the privilege of proph
ecy to write blank on his card. -
I heard a lady say yesterday she had
dropped in at ■, and found Miss Blank,
at ten o’clock, iu her room, with loose slip
pers, sitting down, doing nothing, but
pouting and wishing the girl would come to
dress Tier hair. I asked her how this
precious example exhausted her leisure, aud
she said, “Mainly in fixinglier hair.” She,
too, is a communicant of the Church of the
Lord Jesus, and though a kind-hearted
girl, I feel bound to say she is a positive dis
grace to the profession shq makes. She is
a hundred-fold move culpable than the St.
Giles tramper, who said she had never
been iu a church, and didn’t know it was
wrong to lje.
A few evenings since, at an experience
meeting, I heard a young lady briefly re
spond to the pastor’s invitation, and, 1 am
sure, with the fullest sincerity, declare her
desire to bo all her blessed Master would
have her to be. My heart went out to her
in warmth; and of all who recalled their ex
perience that evening, none was more ac
ceptable to me. But even as the tears gath
ered in my eyes, I could not but remember
that at a plain aud pleasant social gathering
a few evenings before, she was so adorned
and embellished and elaborately arrayed
that I should not have presumed to advance
the topic of our Lord and his life and teach
ings, for there was nothing in the outward
garb to pre-supposo a welcome to any such
subjects, and yet I know her to be a good
and worthy girl, sensible and intelligent on
other subjects. Wliat a pity! What a
shame ! Nothing is farther from me than to
impose a uniform, a drab frock, or an ab
surd plainness that attracts notice and in
vites criticism for its ostentatious exhibition
of piety and sols-denial; but there is a me
dium which the best women, tho truest la
dies, do know how to avail of, and which,
even if a cross, every professed foliowef of
a crucified Redeemer is bound, by that pro
fession, to follow.— N. Y. Observer.
—— > i— > i——
“ Men of Hot Hearts.”
The earnestness of tho adherents of error
is enough to crimson our cheeks. It is not
long' since thirty young Jesuits (imitating
the men of the Solemn League and Covenant
nigh three centuries ago) opened a vein in
their arms, and dipping their pens in their
own blood, wrote a letter to their Superior,
announcing their willingness to go wherever
he was pleased to send them. Will not tho
true “ Order of Jesus” send forth au increas
ing number of illustrations of kindred earn
estness?
“ We need men of hot hearts to tell of the
love of Jesus,” was the appeal sent home by
some Chinese converts, the other day. This
is what the Church needs—what the world
needs —“Men of hot hearts.”
“I would ye were hot,” is the Master’s
cry.
If wo are to succeed we must be on fire
about it. Dr. Arnot, of Edinburg, tells of
his being at a railway station one day, and
wearied of waiting for the train to move, he
asked one of the men what the trouble was.
“Is there a want of water?”
“Plenty of water, sir,” was the prompt
reply, “ but it’s no' biling’.”
That’s tlie trouble with the Church to
day. There’s abundance of machinery—the
engine is all in order, the train is made up,
the men are all at their posts—“there’s
plenty of water, but it’s no’ biliu’.’’ The
great motive power is wanting. We need
to heap on the fuel of sound doctrine; not
shavings of sentiment which may make a
big blaze only to go out as quick, but tlie
solid logs of fundamental truth —chunks, if
you will.
But we need yet more the fire — to be bap
tized with the Holy Ghost as with fire.
“Come, Holy Spirit, Heavenly Dove,
With all thy quickening powers ;
Come, shed abroad a Saviour’s love,
And that will kindle onrs.”
“ Christ formed us, dwelling in our hearts
by faith ” —that will do it.
“Deeper, deeper and you will find the
Emperor,” cried one of the scarred voterans
of Napoleon’s Guard, as the surgeon,probing
a deep wound with his lancet, had got very
near the heart. Can we, who profess to be
soldiers of a grander army and a more illus
trious Commander, say the same? A whole
burnt offering; alivingsacrifice; a thorough,
whole-hearted service; a soul with the zeal
of our Father’s House consuming it, and
the love of Christ constraining it; this, this
is what we want.
Let us throw our hearts, then, into “ tlie
great battle of God Almighty. ”
The heart of the Captain of Salvation is
in it all the time. Having spoiled the prin
cipalities and powers, triumphing over them
on His cross, He hath sat down on the right
hand of the Majesty on High, from hence
forth expecting (always expecting, in the
darkest period of the world and Church
never doubting) until His enemies be made
His footstool. Though His body be on the
Throne, His soul is on tho battle-field.
When the heart of the Prince of Bannock
burn was being borne in an urn to Jerusa
lem, the noble Douglas, with the brave
escort who accompanied it, were assailed by
the infidel Turk.
Almost overborne by tho swarming horde,
the little band of heroes reeled, when their
leader threw tlie casket which contained
the precious treasury into the midst of the
enemy. It roused the flagging spirits of his
men. They fought with redoubled energy
for the heart of their dead king, and their
enemies did lick the dnst.
Not the heart of a dead lint of a living
King is with us. And as wo, rather than
those who claim it, have tho best right to
claim it, “ Brethren and Sisters of the Sa
cred Heart, let us be stimulated by the
thought that the heart of the living, loving
Christ, is here, in tho world’s great field
of battle.”
“ Oh! who would not a champion he
In this the lordlier chivalry *
Up ronse ye, then, brave brother hand,
With honest hearts and working hands.
We are bntfew —toil-tried, yet true,
And hearts beat high to dare and do;
Oh! there be those who ache to see
The day-dawn ot our Victory.
. Work, brothers, work—work hand and brain
We’ll win the Golden Age again.”
We have promises to live upon until the
trials come, and then, when they have come,
accomplishments. — Hatyburlon.
Rouud-ilaiicesat tlie Confessional.
The following purports to be the bona
fide report of a Catholic confessional, in
which a young lady who danced told her
story, and was read a lesson. True or not,
it is good enough to be true :
“Please tell me, father, is it a sin to dance
the round dance ?”
“What am I to understand by round
dances ?”
“Waltzes, polkas, galops, etc,”
“Describe a galop. ’
“Why, it’s something like a waltz, only
swifter, and the steps are different, and
there are several changes as you make tho
circuit of the room.”
“Alone ?”
“By no means, a partner, of course.”
“Gentleman, I presume ?”
“Well, yes; gentleman preferred.”
“Takes the lady by the hand ?”
“Not exactly; at least, by one hand ?”
“And how does he dispose of the other ?”
“Well, why” blushing deeply—“you
know tho lady has to be supported, aud so
her partner just touches her waist lightly
and—”
“But that would afford no support.”
“Well, she rests oil his ar -hand just a
little, father.”
“But then she must have a superfluous
hand if he takes but one.”
“O, she rests her other hand upon his
shoulder just enough to steady herself.”
(More blushes.)
“But”—very matter of fact—“isthateom
fortable ?”
“O, yes, father, very comfortable.”
“If many couples dauce at ouce, I should
think there would be danger of their com
iug in contact."
. “Sometimes, but they recover themselves
immediately.”
“Aud the lady is uot thrown away from
her partner ?”
“O, not at all; he holds her too closely.”
“I think,” taking a pinch of snuff, “I
understand now what yon mean by a round
dance, which I presume you enjoy very
much.”
“It is perfectly enchanting ! particularly
when the music is fine, and one has a good
partner.”
“Do you dauce with any gentleman who
may be introduced ? In society there must
be some bad men.”
“Well, I’d rather dance with a bad man
who is ft good dancer, than a good man who
is a bad dancer ; it don’t make much odds
about the character of the geutlemau, so he
is a good dancer. But then, to he sure, I
enjoy it a good deal more when I know the
gentleman and like him.”
“And you think this is proper, anil mod
est, and maidenly, to go careeriug over a
ball-room floor in the arms of a man whom
you might or might uot have liuown ten
minutes previously ?”
“Well, no, but it is the custom.”
“Would you permit a stranger entering
your father’s house to assume tho position
of a gentleman in the round-dance, and
conduct you through your parlors ?”
“Os course not; that, would be shockiug.”
“My child, in the eyes of God it is the
same. ” — Exchange.
He Preaches too Long.
Who says so? Miicli depends upon that.
Is it the man whose delight is in the law of
the Lord, auil who meditates therein day
aud night? Or is it the lukewarm profes
sor and the formalist, who have no keen
relish for spiritual food ? Or is it tlie nat
ural man, who cannot discern the things of
tlie Spirit? It may be that ministers some
times preach too long ; but may there not
be a defect in tho hearer, who complains of
tho length of tho sermon, ns often as a
transgression upon the part of the minister?
He preaches too long ! Did the Holy
Spirit intimate that to you ? He has sought
the inspiration of that Spirit, and waited
upon God to receive His message, and comes
to deliver that message. How dare you tell
him to forbear while God’s Spirit prompts
him to speak ?
Are you quite sure it is with becoming
modesty that you criticise your minister in
this particular? Havo you more wisdom
than lie, aud undestandhis duty better than
himself ? Surely you intimate your superior
wisdom, when you assume to be liis teacher
in respect of his performances.
Dr. John Hall, in commenting upon the
demand for brief sermons, which seems to
be growing into a fashion, says: “It is liko
the story I heard once of a man who went
into a fashionable restaurant and asked for
a mutton chop. After waiting for a long
time, after great preparation made by the
servant around the table for the reception
of that mutton chop, at last in came the
waiter with a plate upon which was deposi
ted a chop done to the smallest dimensions.
Sticking his fork into it, he put it, to the
horror of tho servant, into liis mouth at a
mouthful, and munching it a moment, said,
“Yes, that is it; bring mo some." I some
times feel tempted to say, when one of these
diminutive sermons of five and twenty
minutes is finished, “Yes, that’s what I
want; bring me some.” I myself really do
not feel that I have fairly got under way un
til five and twenty minutes have passed,
and one who has got into sympathy with the
subject and with the people will feel the
same thing.”
Cease your thoughtless, presumptuous,
querulous, lazy criticisms about long ser
mons; and pray for yourself that you may
have a spiritual appetite, and for your minis
ter, that the word preached by him may
have free course and be glorified, and you
will increase your own comfort and his use
fulness.—Methodist Protestant.
Scattering,YYct Increasing.
Mr. W. W. Cornell, the founder of the
Cornell University at Ithaca, N. Y., has
passed away from earth, leaving as liis
monument, the Institution bearing his
name, to which he devoted the princely sum
of half a million of dollars. The University,
already highly prosperous, promises to exert
a widening influence upon the State where
it is located and the whole land. A corres
pondent of a New York paper mentions the
following interesting particulars, showing
the small beginnings from which his large
beneficence sprang, and how Mr. Cornell
cultivated the grace of giving on a great
scale:
When a poor blacksmith, earning his
living over his anvil and forge, he made a
donation which, as ho says, laid the foun
dation for his colossal fortune, and oaused
his liberality to keep pace with his wealth.
A collection was being taken up in Greene
street to remove the debt on tho church. A
party soliciting funds in the congregation
came to his pew and said: “Brother Cornell,
I think you ought to give us something.”
“I think so, too,” was the response. “How
much shall I put you down ?” “Fifty dol
lars.” “You ought not to pay that; you
are a poor laboring man.” “1 think I can,”
said Mr. Cornell; “I shall have fifty dollars
left.” Jnst before he died, Mr. Come#
said: “Since I made that donation I never
saw the time that I lacked a hundred dol
lars.” He left Greene street for James
street, because the latter church was in debt
He left that when out of debt, And went to
the Fourth street Marble church, to lift the
$60,000 with which that was encumbered.
When a subscription was to be taken up
Mr. Cornell usually took the floor to make
personal solicitations. His own donations
were usually small comparatively. But he
would subscribe liimseif in the name of
other people, partly to hide his gifts, and
partly to shame the penurious. Going to a
pew, where a reluctant but well to-do. mem
ber sat, and who declined to subscribe, lie
would pass on to a poor widow or sewing
girl, say a word to the parties, and then
shout ont, “Widow Jones, ssoo“Sister
Kennedy, $150.” A meohanio thought he
could spare $lO, and the subscription was
shouted out for SIOO. Tho General Super
intendent of the oity was brought to his feet
one night. He had agreed to subscribe SSO
for some purpose, and he heard his name
announced for sl,soo—half a year’s salary.
Tho subscriptions were not bogus. In every
case Mr. Cornell made them good. His rule
was, that in whatever he undertook to give
one-half of the whole subscription.
Loyalty. —An old Scotch nurse once came
to die, who was the sole depositary of a
mysterious seoret affecting the desoentof
property, and touching the good name of
E. H. MYERS, D. D.,
WHOLE NUMBER!
the house in which she had lived
urged her to confess, and remix
providing for tho safety of her s
safety of my soul!” she said; *
you put the - honor of an old Sc]
in competition with the soul of a
ture like me ?”— Mr. Froude in J
The Lord Sent 11 ill
One Sabbath a poor drunken j
into one of our wealthy and ]
congregations, and seated liims
pulpit. He came in at the clos]
hymn, and his shabby appcnrail
certain gait attracted general obs
The minister had scarcely ]
preaching when the stranger lia]
a deep sleep; his loud snoring air]
ed the voice of the speaker, aucM
officers of the church approach
him out of the building.
“ Let him remain,” said the in]
does not disturb mo. If he da
and bear with him. I hope hJ
some word before he leaves whil
suiule him to seek anew life. I
not iu his senses; there is somj
which we do not perceive which ]
here. I believe the Lord sent hi]
He eon tinned to sleep on, but ml
The pealing of on organ and th]
a choir at List aroused him. Hi
his feet and gazed in bewildering
It was the old hymn “ Rock]
which they were singing, lie sal
buried liis face within his liai
memories came thronging upol
shall say? That he was affecte]
seen by his flowing tears. He I
the prayer which followed, a toil
tion that all might repent anil a
viour, and that each one might!
and peace.
The next Sabbath he was again
This time he was a punctual anl
listener. Although still sliabbl
he had paid some regard to his 1
continued to attend and to imJ
appearance. In one of the prayl
he arose and said that lie hoped I
come a Christian. He had a pil
her great desire was that he migl
Christian. Since her death liJ
victim of intemperance. For yeal
had been downward. On the Sal
he first entered the church, liol
the singing and paused to listtl
seemed to bid him enter. Hel
might be tlie voice of God speal
for the last time. Half overcoml
and almost in rags, he entered 1
Ho heard part of the hymn ‘ ‘ Rcl
the liymu sung by his mother up3
bed. The prayer which follol
meant for him. He resolved to I
old habit, and by tlie grace of <1
kept his resolution.
He became a sincere and dev
tian. Os that church ho beeamJ
and subsequently a deacon,
know,” said his pastor, “a mnnl
est, or more successful in doinJ
he. ” Temperance 1 'indicator.
Christian Purity
The nature of Christian pur
mistaken. Sanctity does not and
externals, nor does it display i
sorrowfulness of our looks, or ii
larity of our dress. To be holy
wrapt in unearthly contemplate
into solitude and leave the qj
and trying anxieties of life to o]
the anchorites of the desert. ]
interlard our common conversa!
ligious phrases and passages <i
and to be constantly adverting
ings and actions of the soul as di
heads of Cromwell’s time, or tj
more modern days. It is not]
family circle to which we held
solemnities of a funeral, and n
every one about us the dark]
frown of a rebuking censorship]
No, the essence of true liolii
in conformity to the nature and]
in our being like our Father in
There is a moral omnipotence
liness, an energy of moral suasi]
man’s life, that no sophistry cal
no conscience can ward oft’.
The seen but silent beantyl
speaks more eloquently of Goa
than the tongues of men anil A
most thrilling and vigorous sj
the pulpit may be evaded, the]
iug providences of God forgo#
most melting exhibitions of the ]
may apparently fail to convinJ
the soul, but the beauty of ho]
iug through the life of a love]
friend, has a might which ]
withstand. It is the gospel gl
hearts, beaming from the eyJ
from the lips, and speaking in]
believers, that is mighty thri
convince the sinner and pens
come to Christ.
If the Church of God were!
this immortal panoply, the I
soon be subjected to the sway J
right it is to reign.
Private Prayed
In the morning the mind I
temptations of the day have n
the duties of the day havo nl
mind and begun to vex you. I
to the duties of the day, to I
anxieties and temptations, bl
with prayer. Temptations I
will meet; trials of virtue anl
overtake you; and many time*
you will need the aid of your LI
you. Go to Him, and ask 9
guide you, His power to upl
presence to cheer you, His spfl
you. Then will you have donel
aleut to half the duties of the J
have thus engaged His care a®
And when the evening com®
have done with the duties ofl
body is wearied aud the mind I
the world is shut out by the shl
when you come to look back ofl
day, when you see how mas®
have marked it, how many I
still cluster around you, how J
you in the face, how little you!
yourself, or for others, or for I
past, then is the hour of pray®
sweet to feel that you have I
you can go, and who will hear®
will forgive you, if you are pel
in the name of Jesus Christ;®
accept yonr evening sacrifice®
strength for tho morrow, and®
his righteousness. This hour®
proved, will be like the chefl
nance of a most beloved frieifl
that nothing comes
hours devoted to God. — Dr. fl
Ouk Hands. —The human li
tifully formed,it has so fine asi
sensibility governs its motion
every effort of the will is auswj
ly as if the hand itself were t
will; its actions are so free, so
yet so delicate, that it seen]
quality instinct in itself, and
we draw our breath, uneoi
have lost all recollection of tj
ill-directed efforts of its fix]
which it has been perfected,
are twenty-nine bones, in thi]
which resulfstrength, mobill
ity. On the length, strong]
motion, and perfect mobility]
depends the whole power j
its strength being equal to I
fingers. Without the flesl]
thumb, the power of the ting]
nothing; aud, accordingly, |
formed by tlie muscles of In
distinguishing character of tbl
Fidelity in Little Things!
are rare; the occasions for I
rare; and when they do oca
pared for them; wo are excita
eur of the sacrifice; we are si
by the splendor of the deedl
the world, or by the self-col
we experience from the perl
uncommon action. Little thi
seen; they return every monJ
in contact with our pride, oul
haughtiness, our readiness t|
they contradiot onr inclinatiJ
It is, however, only by fl
things that a true and const®
can be distinguished from a J
spirit.