Below is the OCR text representation for this newspapers page.

THREE DOLLARS PER ANNUM. 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.