House Beautiful, by A. L. O. E. │ Project Gutenberg

Authoress of "The Shepherd of Bethlehem," "Exiles in Babylon,"
"Rescued from Egypt," & c.

THE narrative portions of the Holy Scriptures are full of striking biographies of those whose virtues are set before us as examples, or whose errors as warnings. We are led, as it were, into a Gallery of Portraits, drawn with faultless accuracy by a sunbeam. But besides these portraits, there are many objects of deep interest for the student of Scripture, the accounts of which have been "written for our learning," objects which we are intended to contemplate with earnest attention, and from which we may draw rich spiritual lessons. Such are Noah's Ark, the Brazen Serpent, the Manna from Heaven, which have been commented upon by apostles, and by our Saviour Himself. If the biographies in the Bible form the Portrait Gallery of Scripture, such objects as those to which I have referred—gathered together for our contemplation—suggest the idea of a Museum, and we are reminded of the instruction which Bunyan represents to have been gained from such in House Beautiful. I have never yet met with a work in which a number of such objects have been specially collected for the contemplation of Christians, and it has occurred to me that such a volume of reflections might assist us more vividly to realize much of what is contained in the Word of God.

Come then with me, my Christian reader, and let us examine together some of those ancient objects rescued by the inspired writers from oblivion, and undimmed by the dust of many ages. Let us not handle them with superstitious reverence as relics, but make use of them to raise our minds from the absorbing cares and pleasures of the present, to holy musings on the past. May the Spirit of Wisdom and Truth assist us in our meditations, and increase our deep reverence for those sacred Scriptures in which these objects of interest are preserved.

CAN this object, so small, so beautiful, be yet through its effects more deadly than any weapon of war ever forged for man's destruction, more deadly than the poison-flask, the dagger, or the thunderbolt! It lies before us fresh and fair as when, nearly six thousand years ago, it hung amongst the green foliage of Paradise, more beautiful than any fragrant peach on which the last ripening sunbeam glows in a now fallen world.

On the fruit of Eden, which could so lightly yield to Eve's touch, and be marked by the soft pressure of her fingers, we see not the trail of the serpent; it is goodly to look upon, and what mortal dare say that had he been in the place of our first parents, the fair but fatal fruit would have hung untasted on the bough? In looking on it, how awful a lesson we learn of the poisonous nature of what we dare to call "little sins!"

Who amongst us, beholding Eve in her beauty plucking the fruit which tempted her eye, would not have been ready to have echoed the first lie ever breathed on our planet, "thou shalt not surely die." Bright, guileless, and, until now, sinless being; God will not severely judge thee, He has threatened, but He will not perform.

Is not the same deluding idea at the bottom of all our carelessness, our neglect of duty, our grasping at forbidden pleasure? "Thou shalt not surely die" has been the whisper of the Tempter from Eve's time till now. Let us answer him by pointing to that fruit. Was not the death of myriads enclosed, as it were, in its rind? Could the stain left by its fatal juice be washed out by floods of tears or rivers of blood? Had no sin but that one sin of plucking it been ever committed upon earth, could that sin have been atoned for by anything less than the sacrifice of an Incarnate God?

Sin stands not alone by itself: as the seed is contained in the fruit, so one transgression is the parent of many. Coveting what God had withheld, longing for a luxury forbidden, ambitiously aiming at gaining knowledge which should make her independent as a God, Eve at once received into her heart "the lust of the eye, the lust of the flesh, and the pride of life." They came as guests—to remain as tyrants. When we feel their influence within ourselves, when covetousness, love of pleasure, or pride of intellect would draw us from our lowly allegiance to God, from our simple obedience to His word, let us look on the forbidden fruit and tremble—let us look on it, and watch and pray.

When we make of intellect an idol; when we exalt reason above revelation, and would draw down God's hidden mysteries to the level of our finite comprehension, we are putting forth our hand, like Eve, to pluck and taste the forbidden fruit; forgetful of the warning of the Saviour: "He that receiveth not the kingdom of heaven as a little child shall in no wise enter therein."

II.

MORE of the fruits of the earth are here, though no longer the fruit of Eden. These, too, are rich and beautiful, and a special interest attaches to them, for they are the offering made to God by the first man who was ever born into a sinful world.

Have we ever realized the feelings with which Adam and his wife must have watched the dawn of intellect in their firstborn son, or the mingled grief, shame, and hope, with which they would tell him the history of the Fall, and the mysterious promise linked with the sentence passed upon them by the righteous Judge? Did young Cain share the hope, which appears at one time to have been his mother's, that he should be the one to whom it would be given to set his foot upon the Serpent's head, and crush the Enemy of his race? We know not whether such thought as this ever passed through the mind of the boy, but he never seems to have entered, like his younger brother, into the solemn meaning of sacrifice for sin.

Cain was not one to neglect all forms of religion; he had his thank-offering for the God of Nature. It is possible that when he looked around him on swelling fruits and ripening grain, and found the earth beneath the labour of his hands yield thirty, sixty, or a hundredfold, a feeling both of adoration and of gratitude may have stirred within his soul. "Cain brought of the fruit of the ground an offering unto the Lord."

But the offering was not accepted. And wherefore was it not? Let us search a little more deeply into this matter, and see, if God help us to understand, wherefore that sacrifice of Cain was rejected, and if there be any danger that ours may be even as his.

It is clear that the case of Cain differs from that of the man utterly indifferent to religion; the man who cares not to make any offering at all. There are those, bearing the name of Christians, whose purses (readily enough opened at any call of pleasure or pride) are kept systematically shut when God's service or His people's need require their contributions. It may well be a startling thought for such that they do "less than Cain."

But what was it that marred the offering of Adam's firstborn son? Why were those mellow fragrant fruits less acceptable to God than the bleeding lamb presented by Cain's younger brother? We have the answer in the words of inspiration. "By faith" Abel offered unto God a more excellent sacrifice than Cain. And what was this acceptable faith? We cannot think that it consisted in a mere belief in the existence of God as the Creator and Preserver of mankind, that vague belief which now satisfies so many who deem it a proof of higher intellect and more liberal thought to reject the peculiar doctrines of Christianity. Doubtless Cain held such belief, yet his offering was "not" the offering of faith.

Abel came before God in God's appointed way, as a transgressor, seeking grace through the medium of a sacrifice. We know not how far he understood the meaning of the rite; whether it was revealed unto him, more or less distinctly, that the promised seed of the woman was also to be the Lamb of God that taketh away the sins of the world; but whether the light granted to Abel was dim or bright, he walked by it in faith. The fruits gathered by the hand of Cain showed no recognition of guilt—no consciousness of needing mercy—no hope of grace to be received through a heaven-sent deliverer. And the offering was not accepted.

If the touchstone contained in the words "by faith" were applied to a multitude of the gifts now placed upon the altar of God, would not many—would not most of them be found to be offerings like those of Cain? Pause, dear reader, and think over your own. Have you helped to raise churches, or to ornament them, to provide for orphans, to assist needy widows, is your name on many a subscription list—your gold often seen on the collection-plate? Do you give the fruits of your intellect to religious work, the best of your time to charitable labours? Are you counted an active and useful member of the church to which you belong? All this may be, and yet it is not impossible that you are presenting the offerings of Cain.

Are you standing in your own righteousness, labouring in your own strength, not deeming yourself a sinner needing forgiveness, but a saint entitled to reward? Search well your motives, look closely at your own heart. We shall not be judged according to the verdict of the world, that sees the action but scans not the motive, but by Him who reads the secret thought and intent.

Herod raised a magnificent temple to the Lord God of Israel, and his liberality may have been lauded to the skies, yet, surely, his was the offering of Cain. Let us be fully persuaded that no sacrifice of ours can be acceptable but as made "for" Christ, and offered through Christ, that we need "the blood of sprinkling" both on ourselves and on our works, if we would not find that sacrifice—these works, however great, however highly extolled—rejected at last!

And there is another way in which we may cause our gifts to be accounted worthless by the Lord, even when we believe them to be offered in faith—when the proud spirit of malice, jealousy, hatred, which was especially the spirit of Cain, is suffered to pollute even that which we bring unto God. Theological hatred has become proverbial for bitterness: so fierce are the disputes upon subjects of religion, that the nature of that "faith that worketh by love" seems to be often entirely forgotten.

If we would not tread in the steps of the first murderer, let us follow the command of our Lord. "If thou bring thy gift to the altar, and there rememberest that thy brother hath ought against thee; leave there thy gift before the altar, and go thy way; first be reconciled to thy brother, and then come and offer thy gift."

Of the deepest importance is it to all who come not empty-handed before their Creator and Judge, to examine whether faith hallows or self-righteousness mars what they bring, whether theirs be the accepted sacrifice of Abel or the rejected offering of Cain.

III.

PRECIOUS little leaf, symbol of hope and of peace; well worthy art thou of being thus preserved for thousands of years, to be viewed by generation after generation of the sons of men as a pledge of God's lovingkindness! Far more valuable art thou, leaflet once borne in the bill of a bird, than the glittering diadem worn by Solomon in all his glory. With what delight wert thou once hailed by all that survived of mankind, by the whole Church enclosed in the ark; and we can well believe that even in Paradise the spirit of Noah dwells with pleasure on the recollection of that moment when he first looked upon thee!

To conceive what must have been the joy felt by the patriarchs at the sight of the first leaf from a renovated world, let us try to realize their position when the dove flew back with that leaf in its bill.

When Noah and his family first took refuge in the ark, and the windows of heaven were opened, and the fountains of the great deep broken up, their emotions were doubtless those of thankfulness for deliverance and safety, when the great judgment, so long threatened, so long expected, had come at length on the earth. While the storm raged around them, they were secure; the waves that swept over a guilty world could but lift their floating home nearer to heaven! With their emotions of thankfulness would be mixed those of sorrow, pity, regret, for neighbours, perhaps friends and relatives, who had been warned in vain, then perishing beneath the terrible flood. Had not God Himself shut him in, how often would Noah have thrown wide open the door of the ark to receive the poor struggling, drowning wretches, whose dying eyes would be turned to that refuge which they had rejected and despised until it was too late to seek it.

But when the flood had fulfilled its terrible mission; when no cries of the drowning were borne on the blast; when the cataract of rain had ceased, and the dashing of waters was heard no more; then the excitement, the strong emotions of the family in the ark must also have sunk into comparative rest. As the wild raging of the tempest was exchanged for the stillness of death, and the great vessel floated tranquilly over placid waters, and week after week, month after month passed, without bringing a change, great and probably wearisome monotony would pervade the life of the inmates of the ark. That which they had at first rejoiced in as a refuge, would gradually, but increasingly, become to them like a prison. How long were they to be confined within its narrow bounds; when would they be permitted again freely to tread the earth, and partake once more of its fresh produce?

If the Israelites bitterly recalled to memory the riches of the gardens of Egypt—the cucumbers, the melons, the leeks and the onions—would no such regrets be felt by the family of Noah? Would not woman sigh for the flowers that she had been wont to cherish, and an inexpressible yearning oppress all, a yearning to look once more on the green, smiling face of nature? For how many more months, or years, were weary eyes to rest on the same objects, counting the beams above or the planks below of the now familiar prison? A fear might even arise that the supply of provisions, however large at first, might fail, and privation and want ensue. The venerable Noah may have waited with unshaken faith and calm submission for the hour of freedom, but it is more than probable that the younger members of his family grew impatient under the restraint of lengthened confinement.

At last Noah opened the window of the ark and sent forth a raven. In the monotonous routine of the life which he led, this was an event thought worthy of record; the creature appears to have been sent as a messenger, and its return must have been anxiously awaited. But never again did the dark bird re-enter the ark which he once had quitted.

Again Noah sent forth a bird, a dove; but in the beautiful language of Scripture, "the dove found no rest for the sole of her foot, and she returned unto him into the ark, for the waters were on the face of the whole earth: then he put forth his hand, and took her, and pulled her in unto him into the ark."

Not yet had come the signal for release; patience had not yet had its perfect work; the fathers of mankind, the inheritors of the world, must wait longer ere entering into possession. Seven times the sun rose and set ere the dove was sent forth again by Noah. But this time the gleam of the silver wing was to bring joy to the waiting patriarch: "The dove came in to him in the evening; and, lo, in her mouth was an olive leaf pluckt off: so Noah knew that the waters were abated from off the earth." When was earthly treasure ever received with the rapturous welcome given to that leaf; the first brought from a world new-born, as it were, from the dead!

If we regard the Church of Christ as the ark floating now on the troublous waters of the world, the story of Noah's olive leaf becomes a beautiful parable. "How long, Lord, how long," has been for ages the weary cry of the people of God, waiting and watching for the final deliverance and restitution of all things. They are "safe," for they rest in Christ, but the heirs of the new heaven and the new earth may seem to wait in vain. Unbelief suggests the discouraging thought, "since the fathers fell asleep all things continue as they were from the beginning of the creation." Virtue still suffers; evil still spreads; sin and sorrow, like the waters of the flood, are covering the face of the earth.

But there is an olive leaf still for the family of God in the ark. It is the Saviour's promise, "I will come again and receive you unto Myself." To find it and bear it home is not granted to mere human reason, however keen of eye and strong of wing: the raven brought not the emblem of hope. It is the Dove, the Heavenly Comforter alone who brings to the waiting Church, to each weary individual heart, the pledge and promise of a glorious inheritance, when Christ shall return to throw wide open the bolted door, and bid His redeemed come forth to rejoice and to reign for ever!

Has the Dove, dear Reader, brought that olive leaf to your soul; have you rejoiced in the promise? Are you eagerly looking for Him, whom, not having seen, you have loved; and is His word, "I will come again," more precious to you than thousands of silver and gold? Well may the Christian, looking to the promise, adopt the language of the poet,— *

Oh! who could bear life's stormy doom,
  Did not Thy Heavenly Dove
Come brightly bearing through the gloom
  A peace-branch from above!

Then sorrow, touched by Thee, grows bright
  With more than rapture's ray,
As darkness shows us worlds of light
  We never saw by day.

IV.

WE experience natural pleasure in visiting spots celebrated in history. Though corn may wave, and fruit ripen over the scene of some celebrated battle, we cannot look with indifference on the scene where was once held a world-famous struggle for freedom. No modern palace would have the interest which would be attached to the ruin of one which had been trodden by famous monarchs of old. Were there buildings remaining of which it could be said, "here Alexander planned his conquests;" or "there Cyrus administered justice;" we should regard such buildings, however crumbling and defaced, as places gilded by memories which time could never destroy.

But no palace of monarch, no fortress of hero, could ever wake in us such feelings of reverence as a tent of black goat's hair, such as those which the nomade descendants of Abraham now pitch on the sands of Arabia, if it could be certified to us,—"here dwelt the father of the faithful; he who in Scripture is called the friend of God. In that doorway sat the venerable patriarch in the heat of the day, when, raising his eyes, he beheld three mysterious visitors from Heaven stand before him. Behind yon curtain Sarah listened with eager interest to the conversation between her lord and the angel, laughing to herself at tidings which she would not at first believe. There also, when time had rolled on, she laughed with joy over the babe, the promised gift of God; the child from whom should descend a race as the stars in the sky or the sands by the sea for number. It was there that Abraham first embraced his Isaac, and blessed God for the fulfilment of that promise which faith had grasped, when the aged man had 'against hope believed in hope.'"

Though the patriarch's tent was most unlike our own habitations, and though the dwelling of a wealthy sheik would contain fewer comforts than many an English cottage, we turn to it for lessons of what a home should be in all climates, and through all ages. Not that it can be altogether a model even as regards the conduct of its inmates; Sarah's chidings, Hagar's scorn, and Ishmael's mockings must not be forgotten; but in four respects, at least, the tent of Abraham offers a scene which we may contemplate with reverence and profit.

Firstly, it was the dwelling of faith. Wherever its stakes were driven in, its cords stretched, its curtains spread, there rose a habitation in which God was truly worshipped. The ground upon which it stood became in a manner holy. Could that tent speak, of what fervent prayers, what wrestling faith, what earnest adoration, could it tell, and that at a time when idolatry had spread over almost all the earth! In the midst of darkness a bright light shone from that tent; a light which has never been, and never will be, extinguished.

Are our homes thus centres of light? Is God, the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, thus constantly honoured in them? Could the word spoken of the patriarch be also spoken, reader, of thee? "I know him, that he will command his children and his household after him, and they shall keep the way of the Lord, to do justice and judgment." Had thy walls a voice, what witness would they bear to earnest pleadings in secret, or humble devotion in family prayer?

Again,—Abraham's tent was the abode of conjugal, parental, and filial affection. Sarah, with all her faults, is held up to us as a model wife. Though, even in advanced life, celebrated for exquisite beauty, Sarah's adorning appears to have been no "outward adorning of plaiting the hair, and of wearing of gold, or of putting on of apparel; she obeyed Abraham, calling him lord," yielding loving reverence to her husband. Isaac was brought up in the nurture and admonition of the Lord; and his obedience to God, and submission to his aged parent, were alike shown when he suffered himself to be bound, an unresisting victim, on the altar of sacrifice.

In these days, when a spirit of lawless independence sometimes pervades even the nursery, and wives too often forget that they have vowed to honour and obey as well as to love, it is well that we should let our thoughts dwell awhile in the tent of Abraham, to see that a home should be as a monarchy, governed by laws of love, the husband and father a wise beneficent ruler, emphatically a power "ordained of God."

Again: Abraham's tent reminds us of the duty of hospitality—that hospitality without grudging, which alone is worthy of the title; not that interchange of worldly courtesies—that asking in order to be asked again—that ostentation which consumes at one luxurious meal what would suffice to feed starving multitudes. Never let the name of hospitality be profaned by being applied to such entertainments as these. But the hearty welcome given even to strangers, the readiness to spread the meal for the guest who may never be able to return the kindness, these we learn from the patriarch. Abraham "entertained angels unawares;" and the same may be said of many of those who exercise hospitality in a spirit like his. In one sense the Lord of angels visits the dwellings of those who welcome His servants for His sake. It is a privilege and an honour to entertain the humblest of His saints; for He hath said, "Inasmuch as ye did it unto the least of these My brethren, ye did it unto Me."

Lastly, let us regard our dwellings, as Abraham did his, as a tabernacle rather than as a settled home. Here we have no continuing city, but we seek one to come. Let not our hearts cling too closely to an earthly habitation, as if it were to be ours for ever, but let us rather remember that, like the family of Abraham, we are strangers and pilgrims on the earth:

"Here in the body pent,
Absent from Heaven we roam,
But nightly pitch our wandering tent,
A day's march nearer home."

Yes; for not only our dwellings, but even these our mortal bodies are but tabernacles, to be taken down and laid aside, to be exchanged for a building of God, a house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens. In the meantime let us pray that they may be the abodes of peace and joy and love, and that the Holy Spirit may be our guest, not as one who tarries but awhile and departs, but as one who comes to abide with us always.

AN empty skin-bottle is before us, such as is used by Orientals to the present day to carry what they emphatically term "the gift of God;" a title to which our Saviour appears to have alluded when He said to the woman of whom He had asked water, "If thou knewest the gift of God;" seeking to raise her thoughts from the earthly well to the heavenly Fountain.

Of the value of water in the wilderness, we, in our moist climate, can scarcely form an adequate conception. Let me briefly quote from a description of travelling in an Arabian desert, given by a graphic author: * "On either hand extended one weary plain in a black monotony of lifelessness . . . A dreary land of death, in which even the face of an enemy were almost a relief amid such utter solitude . . . Day after day found us urging our camels to their utmost pace, for fifteen or sixteen hours together out of the twenty-four, under a well-nigh vertical sun . . . Then an insufficient halt for rest or sleep, at most of two or three hours, soon interrupted by the often repeated admonition, 'If we linger here we all die of thirst.'"

But the scene which rises before us, the wilderness of Beersheba, is not peopled with pilgrims and travellers urging on their weary camels; there are but two figures in it—an exhausted, grief-stricken woman, and the fainting lad at her side. That skin-bottle is in her hands—empty. She has watched it shrinking as the precious fluid within was gradually used, or wasted by evaporation; dry and parched as is her own tongue, she has feared to relieve her burning thirst lest she should too soon exhaust the priceless treasure. With a sickening feeling of fear Hagar has given the last draught to her Ishmael; and then, with faint hope, squeezed the skin hard with her feverish hands, trying to press out one more drop—but in vain. She looks anxiously around her, but can see no means of refilling that empty bottle.

Then, in anguish, Hagar turns from the parched shrub under which she has cast her son; she wanders away—but let the account be given in the touching words of Scripture: "She went and sat her down over against him a good way off, as it were a bowshot: for she said, Let me not see the death of the child. And she sat over against him, and lift up her voice, and wept."

While Hagar was weeping, her son appears to have been praying; for it is written, "God heard the voice of the lad." Ishmael's cry was answered: "The angel of God called to Hagar out of heaven, and said unto her, What aileth thee, Hagar? fear not; for God hath heard the voice of the lad where he is. And God opened her eyes, and she saw a well of water; and she went, and filled the bottle with water, and gave the lad drink." When the cool bubbling liquid filled out the swelling skin-bottle in the hand of the rejoicing, thankful mother, as she bent eagerly over the well, far more emphatically than the first supply was it to her—the gift of God.

There are times when life appears to us as the wilderness of Beersheba did to Hagar and Ishmael. Our troubles may have been of our own making; like the proud youth who had mocked at his brother, we may, perhaps, be able to trace our sorrows to their source in our sin; but whether it be so or not, we stand in a dry, thirsty land, where no water is; we seem to have drained our last drop of earthly enjoyment—our lips are parched—our bottle is empty—we feel that we can but lie down and die!

Few pass the meridian of life, perhaps few reach it, without knowing something of this desolation of heart, this emptiness of all joy. Blessed to Ishmael was the trouble which made him cry unto the Lord; blessed to us these disappointments which dry up our cherished supplies, if in our baffled thirst for happiness we turn to our Saviour in prayer. The same God who gave to Hagar a well in the desert has also a message of mercy for us: "Ho, every one that thirsteth, come ye to the waters, and he that hath no money; come ye, buy, and eat; yea, come, buy wine and milk without money and without price." Would we seek more specific direction to the Fountain that bursts forth in the desert, to change that desert to an Eden, and supply our deep thirst for peace and joy? The Saviour Himself repeats the invitation; "If any man thirst, let him come unto Me and drink."

What do we need, dear brethren in affliction, to make us come unto Him in whom the weary find refreshment, and the broken-hearted peace? We need that by the Spirit "our eyes should be opened." The Fountain is near us, but we see it not until then. We view the bare waste around us, the withered hopes that strew it; we vainly try to press out one more drop of pleasure from the earthly vessel which once held it, and find the bottle utterly empty and dry. In such moments of dreariness, O Thou who art the Comforter indeed, Thou who canst fill up the empty void, and satisfy the aching soul with abundance, come to us, speak to us, open our eyes to behold the depths of Thy lovingkindness; lead us beside the still waters, and let the promise of our Redeemer be graciously fulfilled unto us: "He that cometh unto Me shall never hunger, and he that believeth on Me shall never thirst."

VI.

LET us linger before this ancient stone, used first by the benighted patriarch as a resting-place for his head; then raised and anointed by his hands in the morning, as a solemn memorial of a night to be much remembered by him through all his mortal life, and beyond it. If we may judge of the previous spiritual state of Jacob by his conduct towards his father and brother, we shall be inclined to date his conversion to God, the new birth of his soul, to that midnight hour when the wanderer dreamed his glorious dream.

Some of the ideas suggested by Jacob's pillow have been embodied in a beautiful hymn.

"If, in my wanderings,
   My sun go down,
Darkness encompass me,
   My rest a stone,—
Still in my dreams I'll be
Nearer, my God, to Thee—
   Nearer to Thee!

"Then let my ways appear
   Steps unto heaven;
All that Thou sendest me,
   In mercy given;
Angels to beckon me,
Nearer, my God, to Thee—
   Nearer to Thee!

"Then, with my waking thoughts
   Bright with Thy praise,
Out of my stony griefs
   Bethels I'll raise;
Still by my woes to be
Nearer, my God, to Thee—
   Nearer to Thee!"

But a yet deeper meaning seems to be given to the sacred dream by the words of our Saviour, if it be indeed to Jacob's ladder that they allude as type. "Verily, verily, I say unto you, Hereafter ye shall see heaven open, and the angels of God ascending and descending upon the Son of man." What the patriarch beheld in a dream, faith views as a glorious reality. Christ, by His incarnation, linked heaven with earth; by His ascension, joined earth to heaven. He formed a pathway of light, by which the angels ascend and descend. Wherever we receive first into our hearts this glorious truth—first look unto the Saviour as the Way, the Truth, and the Life—that place becomes to us as memory's holy ground, and we can say, as the patriarch said, "This is none other but the house of God—this is the gate of heaven."

Jacob's pillow and his mysterious dream naturally suggest to us meditation on the ministry of angels, of which glimpses are given to us ever and anon in Holy Writ. The bright tenants of a world unseen may be hovering near us, when we have little thought of their presence.

How wondrous was the scene that opened on the servant of Elisha, when, at a time of imminent peril, the prophet's prayer, "Lord, open his eyes, that he may see," was granted! With chariots and horses the fierce enemy was encompassing the city; but lo! Above, a defence, before invisible, was seen to girdle round the prophet: horses and chariots of fire, the legions of Heaven, guarded the servant of God, and no puny arm of flesh had power to hurt one hair of his head. Were our eyes thus enabled to behold the spirits of light, we might see bright winged visitors entering, as familiar guests, the lowly cottage, the attic, the cellar—abodes which proud, luxurious sons of dust would not stoop to enter; we might see angels still encouraging a Peter in prison, refreshing a weary Elisha, rejoicing over a repentant sinner, or bending with celestial smiles over a dying Lazarus, waiting for the signal to welcome a seraph new-born to the skies. But on whatever missions of love these bright beings may come to our earth, we owe their ministry to the Lord of angels: they are "descending upon the Son of man."

And we have our "ascending" angels too—those whose upward flight we fain would follow—blest ones, whom we dare not even wish to detain, as they mount:

"Onward to the glory,
Upward to the prize,
Homeward to the mansions
Far beyond the skies!"

Our eyes are dim with tears, as in vain we try to track their course, lost in a haze of glory; but this we own, with thankful hearts—they owe their exaltation to the King of saints alone: angels are "ascending," as well as "descending, upon the Son of man."

In the dark, bitter gloom of bereavement, we rest our aching heads on the tombstone which covers the relics of one most dear, peacefully sleeping in Jesus. Like Jacob, we feel benighted and alone. But if, in the midnight of sorrow, God reveal Himself to us as He revealed Himself to the patriarch, even that stone will become to us as a Bethel. Does it bear the dear name of our dead—no, rather a name that is written, we trust, in God's Book of Life! Above the stone rises the ladder of light; its foot may rest in the grave, but its summit is hidden in the radiance of Heaven.

VII.

A MOURNFUL relic this, all torn and stained, defiled with dust, and blood, and tears! We seem to hear the wail of the miserable father, as with anguish he gazed upon the once goodly garment. "It is my son's coat; an evil beast hath devoured him! Joseph is without doubt rent in pieces!"

In the excess of his grief, "Jacob rent his clothes, and put sackcloth upon his loins, and mourned for his son many days."

In vain they who had inflicted the deep wound in a parent's heart, hypocritically attempted to heal it. His traitor sons "rose up to comfort him;" but Israel refused to be comforted. "And he said, For I will go down into the grave unto my son mourning. Thus his father wept for him."

How bitterly the marred garment of many colours recalled to the mind of Jacob the joy and pride with which he had placed it on his favourite son—the son of his old age, whom he loved more than all his children! Joseph, beauteous in person, gifted in mind, virtuous in character, was well fitted to be the pride and delight of his parent. We marvel not that the son of the beloved Rachel—he who inherited his mother's outward attractions, with the piety of his father—should have been to the heart of Jacob peculiarly dear.

And yet, perhaps, the first thought which this part of Joseph's history suggests to the mind is, how great an evil is partiality shown by a parent! How it draws upon its object many dangers!—Envy, enmity from without, with the yet greater peril arising from fostered vanity and pride within. Had Joseph remained with his doting father, wearing the distinctive garment with which partial affection had robed him, his noble character might have been utterly marred. Presumption, self-righteousness, and vanity, might, and probably would, have sorely tempted his soul. Joseph's Heavenly Father loved him as tenderly as did his earthly father, but with a far wiser love. God gave the bitter antidote to the sweet poison bestowed by a parent's hand. Oh, that those whose blind and cruel partiality is sowing the seed of discord in their families, and that of pride in the hearts of their best beloved, would earnestly consider the history of Jacob and Joseph! How terrible were the trials which the old patriarch's partiality drew upon his boy! His weak affection tended to injure its object: God knew that, and divided—for how many long and bitter years divided—the father from the son!

Again, in yonder torn and bloody garment we see a terrible comment on the inspired declaration, "he that hateth his brother is a murderer." How many thoughts of envy, how many glances of malice, how many bitter words, must there have been in the family of Jacob, before hatred in Joseph's brethren ripened into the horrible crime which deprived a brother of his freedom, almost of his life, and nearly brought the gray hairs of a father with sorrow to the grave! Was there not a time when, if it could have been foretold to the elder sons of Jacob that they would sell their own brother into slavery, and then, by an acted lie of the most cruel kind, try to conceal their guilt by almost breaking their parent's heart—could this have been foretold to them, would not each have exclaimed, in the language of Hazael, "Is thy servant a dog that he should do this thing?"

Let us be watchful against the appearance of envy, even in its least startling form. If we see the crocodile's egg, let us crush it; nor let the destroyer come forth and gain strength, so that it get the mastery over us. The slightest stirring of ill-will towards one more favoured than ourselves, should place us at once on the watch. The humility that is content with a lowly place—the love that rejoices in the exaltation of a brother—these are the guardians of the soul against envy; and, where these are wanting, can the Spirit of God be said to dwell?

Once more, by Joseph's coat of many colours, rent and blood-stained, we are reminded of the marvellous way in which God's providence brings good out of evil, and makes the darkest events in His servants' lives links in a chain of mercies. The beautiful garment given by paternal love, and worn perhaps with some pride, was torn indeed from the persecuted Joseph—first to be replaced by the scanty apparel of a slave, then afterwards by the garb of a criminal in prison; but it was from wearing the dress of humiliation that Joseph was raised to power and honour. It was not the garment made by his father that he put off, in order to assume robes of high office in the court of King Pharaoh. Had Joseph remained in his home at Hebron, unharmed by malice, untouched by persecution, he would never have been the ruler in Egypt, the benefactor of a nation, the friend of a king, the earthly preserver of all Israel's race. It has been said that "evil is good in the making;" so, even from the malice of Joseph's brethren, the grief of his father, and his own anguish when "the iron entered into his soul," God brought forth blessings unnumbered to the man who feared and obeyed Him.

We cannot leave the stained vestment of the ancient patriarch without turning our thoughts to Him of whom it is written, that "He was clothed in a vesture dipped in blood: and His name is called The Word of God." In Joseph we see a remarkable type of our blessed Redeemer, sent by His Father to visit man, as Joseph was sent to his brethren in Shechem. "He came unto His own, and His own received Him not." For envy, the chief priests delivered Christ into the hands of the Gentiles; and the betrayer received money for Him whom the children of Israel did value, even as their fathers sold Joseph for twenty pieces of silver.

But it is in his subsequent exaltation to be a prince and deliverer—it is in his exercise of boundless liberality and free pardoning grace—that Joseph is especially a type of our Lord. "God sent me before you to preserve you a posterity in the earth, and to save your lives by a great deliverance," said the patriarch to his penitent brethren, who owed preservation from famine to him. And it was to those whom He deigned to call brethren that Christ addressed the gracious assurance, "I go to prepare a place for you."

To Him the sun, and the moon, and the stars pay homage; to Him all the world shall bow down; in His hands is the bread of life; and His word is still, "Look unto Me, and be ye saved, all ye ends of the earth." Once sinners parted Christ's garments amongst them, and upon His vesture did they cast lots; but the hour is approaching when they shall look upon Him whom they pierced, and behold His glory,—

"Whose native vesture bright,
Is the unapproached light,
The sandal of whose foot the rapid hurricane!"

VIII.

A FRAIL bark, indeed, this cradle of woven bulrushes, to bear so precious a freight! We read of the boat which carried Cæsar and his fortunes; if we measure human greatness by the extent and durability of a man's influence over his kind, the mighty Roman is dwarfed beside Moses, and his "fortunes" appear comparatively a thing of a day. Many ages have passed since Cæsar exercised sway in the world; all that remains of him is a mighty name: Moses, who lived some fourteen hundred years before him, is still a living power on earth. The nation which Moses was the instrument of delivering reverence his laws to this day, while myriads of Christians, yea, all who to the latest time will study the Word of God, will honour Moses as a prophet, obey him as a teacher, and drink in wisdom from his inspired writings.

Cæsar raised a Babel structure of grandeur, cemented not with slime but with blood, and it has not left even a ruin behind it. The work of Moses, heaven-guided as he was, resembled more one of the everlasting hills which the Almighty Himself hath planted and made firm, from which flow, and to the end of time will flow, pure streams to fertilize earth, and which from age to age remain unchanged in their calm majestic beauty. Cæsar was a great conqueror. Moses stands before us in dignity of a loftier kind; so glorious as deliverer, lawgiver, prophet, that we almost forget that he was a mighty conqueror also. Cæsar climbed up to a point where a halo of fame shone around him. Moses soared high above it; the glory which beamed from his countenance was glory derived directly from God.

Did the hopes of Jochebed venture to picture anything like this, as she laboured at forming this little ark, twining in and out every green bulrush with a prayer for her helpless babe? A scene of touching domestic interest rises before the imagination as we think of the home of Amram the Levite, near the bank of the Nile, in these old, old days which the Scripture narratives bring so freshly before us. There is Jochebed, in a retired part of her dwelling, anxiously pursuing her labour of love, working and weeping, and praying as she works, trembling lest a cry from her hidden infant should betray the secret of his existence to any Egyptian ear. Perhaps little Aaron disturbs her ever and anon with innocent prattle, lisping in his childish simplicity dangerous questions which the mother knows not how to answer; while Miriam, the future prophetess, of an age to share her parent's anxieties and guard their secret, watches to give notice of the approach of any stranger, her child-face already stamped with the impress of care too natural to one brought up in the house of bondage.

The story of Jochebed and her little ark of bulrushes seems to be one especially recorded for the comfort of mothers. Though in our peaceful land such perils as those which surrounded the cradle of Moses are unknown, yet every parent who watches by a baby boy may learn a lesson from the Israelite mother who, strong in faith, twined that green nest for her little darling. For every infant born into this world of danger and trouble an ark should be woven of many prayers. In two points of view we may regard every such infant as in a position not unlike that of Jochebed's babe, when found by Pharaoh's daughter in his little floating cradle.

The child has been born to danger, and under the doom of death; he is redeemed, adopted, and may be destined to great usefulness and exalted honour. Should a mother's eye rest on these pages, let her follow out with me a subject which can scarcely fail to be one of deep interest to her heart.

Your child, my Christian sister, has, like Moses, "been born to danger, and under the doom of death." You have transmitted to him a fallen nature; he has first opened his eyes to the light in a world of which Satan is the prince—that Pharaoh whose wages is death, that tyrant who seeks to destroy the babe whom you so tenderly love. You cannot keep your little one from all the perils and temptations which, if he live to manhood, will certainly surround him. You cannot prevent his being exposed to trials as perilous to his soul as the waters of the Nile were to the body of the infant Moses. What can you do to guard your child from dangers in which so many have perished? Like Jochebed, strong in faith, make him a little ark of your prayers.

And to turn to the brighter side of the subject—if you have to share Jochebed's fears, may you not inherit her hopes also? It is no earthly princess, but the gracious Saviour Himself who has raised your child from his low estate, reversed his doom, adopted him as His own, and placed him as a little Christian in your arms, with the words, "Take this child away, and nurse it for Me, and I will give thee thy wages."

The destiny which may await your babe, is one which is more great, more glorious, than your imagination can conceive. Can the human mind grasp all that is contained in the titles, "Member of Christ, child of God, inheritor of the kingdom of Heaven?" You are tending an immortal being; a future seraph may be cradled in your arms! Those soft lips, pressed so closely to your own, may hereafter utter words that shall influence the destiny of souls through the countless ages of eternity; to that mind, which can scarcely yet hold even the sweet assurance of a parent's love, may be unfolded mysteries into which the angels desire to look. If care and anxiety press on your soul when you think of what your child is—feeble, helpless, born to trouble as the sparks fly upward—there is deep rapture in the thought of what that child may be. Oh! Dedicate him now to his God; ask for him not fame, power, or wealth, not the riches of Egypt, but ask for him grace to follow the Lord fully, to choose "the reproach of Christ;" ask for him the spirit of humility, faith, and love, which was given to Jochebed's favoured son. In view of the glorious destiny to which he is called, as well as of the perils which beset him, make him a little ark of your prayers.

An honoured woman was Jochebed, mother of Moses, Aaron, and Miriam, all peculiarly favoured by God; and thrice blessed is every Christian parent, whether her offspring live for usefulness below, or be early taken to bliss above, who at the last day shall appear with an unbroken family before the Heavenly King! "Thou whose blood hath redeemed me and mine, and whose grace has preserved us—lo! Here am I, and the children whom Thou hast given me!"

IX.

IT is much more than three thousand years since the mighty wall of waters fell crashing and thundering on Pharaoh and his host; since over his chariots and his horsemen swept the huge billows of the sea. We will not, however, look on his chariot as drawn from the watery waste, where it lay perhaps imbedded in coral, with the dank sea-weeds wrapped around it, pierced by the ship-worm, with the finny inhabitants of the deep gliding under the decaying axle, or over the broken wheel. We will survey Pharaoh's chariot in all its pomp of colour and gilding; as it was when the tyrant mounted it to pursue after Israel, a chariot meet for one of the mightiest of monarchs, one of the proudest of men. We will look on it as it was when powerful and fiery horses bore it rapidly onward, under the guidance of the skilful charioteer, and armed multitudes followed on its track.

What stern and terrible emotions must have darkened the countenance of Pharaoh as he set his foot on that chariot, which was to bear him on, as he deemed, to his revenge! He was the tyrant from whom the captives were escaping; the lion from whom his prey had been torn; the bereaved father whose bitterness of anguish was turned into thirst for vengeance. To Pharaoh, every forward bound of his horses, every revolution of those massive wheels, seemed to brine him nearer to what he most eagerly desired: "The enemy said, I will pursue, I will overtake, I will divide the spoil; my lust shall be satisfied upon them; I will draw my sword, my hand shall destroy them!"

The speed of the royal chariot would appear too slow for the impatience of the monarch within it. And yet to what goal was Pharaoh so eagerly rushing, to what was he pressing on with such fiery haste? Death and a watery grave! In a few hours he was to be a gasping, struggling, dying man in that chariot, or to be swept out of it like a whirling straw on a cataract by the power of the mighty waves!

As was his chariot to Pharaoh, so is ambition to those whose all-absorbing object is to advance in the course of worldly distinction. There are many, not only in the higher but in the lower ranks of life, whose one great wish and aim might be expressed in the words "to get on in the world." Rapid advancement is their grand object; and they are not careful as to what they crush under their chariot wheels. If conscientious scruples come in their way, they pass over them; regard for the interests of others cannot stay them in their career; success is the goal towards which they eagerly drive, though that success with each individual may take a different shape. With one it may be an empire, with another a thriving business; the soldier's highest mark may be a marshal's baton, while the village girl's dream of distinction is to become one day a lady. With one the chariot of ambition is more richly gilded, more gorgeously emblazoned, than with another, but in some form it is mounted by all who seek worldly advancement in this life as their chief end and goal.

Doubtless there is something exhilarating in the rapid motion; the feeling that every turn of the wheel brings the eager aspirant to rank, or power, or wealth, or fame, nearer to what he desires. This feeling is not confined to hardened sinners like Pharaoh. The world does not judge ambition severely, it rather admires the gilded chariot if it bear a man onward to success. But if any one of my readers should be tempted to mount it, let him first look forward calmly and thoughtfully to that point where, to all earthly ambition, it will be said, "hitherto shalt thou come, but no further."

The waters of death lie before us, high and low; monarch and slave alike are swallowed up there, as the waves of the Red Sea made no distinction between mighty Pharaoh and the meanest of his host. What will the proudest earthly success matter to us when once those waters close over us?

"Can storied urn, or monumental bust,
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
Can honour's voice awake the silent dust,
Or flattery soothe the dull cold ear of death?"

There is another chariot mentioned in Scripture, which affords the most striking contrast to that of Pharaoh. Its circling wheels woke no echoes amongst the rocks, left no impression upon the sands. It was prepared for a poor and weary man, whose feet had long trodden a thorny path of trial. I allude to Elijah's chariot of fire—the noblest car into which a son of Adam was ever permitted to mount. It came from Heaven, and Heaven was its bourne. In that chariot, borne above the waters of death, which might not so much as wet the sole of his foot, in Elijah the corruptible assumed incorruption, and the mortal put on immortality!

The subject is a very sublime one, but the lesson which we may draw from it is practical. If Pharaoh's chariot be an emblem of ambition, we may regard Elijah's as the emblem of a spirit of devotion. It descends from Heaven; it is sent by our God to bear His servants upwards towards Him. Not all the waters of death shall quench or dim its glory, for it is immortal like Him who bestowed it.

Reader, a choice is before us: one of these chariots may receive us, but into whichever we enter, it must be by turning away from the other. The man whose first aim and desire is to push himself forward in the world, to press over whatever impediments conscience may place in his way, though he may possess shining qualities, cannot be a true disciple of the meek and lowly Redeemer. While he who has given himself heartily unto Christ, in a spirit of earnest devotion, cannot rest his chief hopes upon any object, however grand, of mere earthly ambition. "The pride of life" is not of the Father, but of the world. "If any man love the world, the love of the Father is not in him."

What, then, is the direction of our most earnest desires? Is it onwards or upwards? Is the goal towards which we are pressing below the skies or above them? If the career before a man be but that of self-seeking pride, however rapid may be his promotion, however swiftly he may sweep on in the path of distinction, with the gaze of an admiring or an envying crowd fixed upon him, every turn of the wheel but brings him nearer to the dark goal of destruction, where his vain ambition, like the chariot of Pharaoh, must perish with the life of its possessor!

BROKEN; alas! Shivered and broken! The gift of the Most High—the tables inscribed with the Law which was uttered in the thunders of Sinai, with the commandments which Israel had thrice vowed to keep—all broken through the baseness of man!

But man is not willing to own this. He has gathered the broken fragments together, as the shivered pieces of a precious ancient vase were once gathered, and has placed them together, fitting bit to bit, and has fastened them firmly, as he deems, with the cement of his own self-righteousness. He believes that there are few particles missing. Perhaps, indeed, he has not kept the Fourth Commandment in all its integrity; perhaps some fragments are wanting in the Tenth; but still, on the whole, he believes that he can present fair, almost faultless, tables, on which God will look with approval, and fellow-creatures with applause. When the Pharisee's eye rested on the tables of the Commandments—that proud eye detected no flaw—he cried, "God, I thank Thee that I am not as other men!" When the young ruler was questioned by the Lord, he, too, marked no breach in the heaven-given Law: "all these things have I kept from my youth up," was the complacent answer of a conscience at rest.

The Lord Jesus, the Source and Fountain of Light, threw such radiance on the Law of God, which man had broken, that the flaws and fractures in it became terribly manifest to every unblinded eye. Christ showed that the Commandment extends to the words of the lip and the thoughts of the heart. How self-righteousness melts under the burning power of that declaration from the Saviour, which sums up all the Commandments in two! "Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind, and with all thy strength: this is the First Commandment. And the Second is like, namely this, Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself." No one, but Him who gave the Law, could keep that Law unbroken!

Yet still, even to the present day, man takes self-righteousness to cement the fragments, and in his secret soul believes his work to be successful. He regards the Tables of Stone as holy; he knows that they were given by God; and his object, sometimes secret, but sometimes even avowed, is to make of them stepping-stones in the way to Heaven, so that he may pass the river of death without fear. He says, in his heart, that he has so carefully kept the Commandments, that he may safely rest upon them, and so receive the reward of obedience.

But woe to man, guilty man, if he trust his safety to that which has been broken again and again, and which never can be effectually joined together again by human effort. Not to his faithfulness in keeping God's Commandments, can the highest saint look for salvation. He knows that he might as well place his foot on a foam bubble floating on a torrent, and trust to that bubble to keep him from sinking, as rest on the broken Law to save him from being swept away to everlasting destruction.

They who have tried most carefully to keep the Law, are most ready to own this truth. Well does the Church of England make her children's response to each Commandment a petition for "mercy." Then at the close of all comes a prayer that God would write His Laws in our hearts, in allusion to His own gracious promise: "I will put My laws into their mind, and write them in their hearts; and I will be to them a God, and they shall be to Me a people."

When our Lord sojourned upon earth, a sinner was brought before Him who had notoriously broken the Law. Christ appealed to the consciences of her accusers, and conscience convicted them all of having, likewise transgressed God's Commandment. Twice on that memorable occasion, "Jesus stooped down, and with His finger wrote upon the ground." No action of the Lord recorded in Scripture can be without significance. If we humbly try to penetrate the meaning of this one, may we not find that the Lord would remind man, that though scribe, Pharisee, and those whom they condemned, had all broken the Law contained in the Tables given through Moses, yet that Christ could write that Law so indelibly in dust and ashes, "with the Spirit of the living God, not in tables of stone, but in fleshy tables of the heart," that it should ever remain there? Thus every true believer becomes, in the forcible language of St. Paul, the epistle of Christ; the Law being inscribed therein by "the finger of God," not as a ground of acceptance, but as a token of adoption.

And let us never forget that what is written in the heart will assuredly be read in the life; none will so earnestly endeavour to keep the Commandments in thought, and word, and deed, as he who has received them in the spirit as well as the letter, "whose obedience is the cheerful heart-service of the man whose transgression is pardoned, whose sin is covered."

XI.

A VERY remarkable scene is brought before us in the history of Alexander the Great. During his career of conquest, he had been offended by the Jews, then subject to his enemies the Persians. Unlike the Samaritans, who had sent troops to the aid of Macedon's mighty king, the Jews remained faithful to their allegiance to Darius. Alexander, little accustomed to have his imperious will opposed, resolved that as soon as he should have conquered Tyre, to which he was then laying siege, he would march against the Jews, and let them also feel the weight of his wrath.

Tyre fell, merciless slaughter ensued, the city was given to the flames, and many of its inhabitants to the sword; while, with yet more horrible cruelty, Alexander caused two thousand of the miserable Tyrians to be crucified along the sea-shore! Such was the conqueror who was now to march against defenceless Jerusalem!

Let me give the account of what followed in the words of Rollin, the historian: "In this imminent danger, Jaddus, the high priest, who governed under the Persians, seeing himself exposed, with all the inhabitants, to the wrath of the conqueror, had recourse to the protection of the Almighty, gave orders for the offering up of public prayers to implore His assistance, and made sacrifices. The night after, God appeared to him in a dream, and bid him to cause flowers to be scattered up and down the city; to set open all the gates; and go, clothed in his pontifical robes, and all the priests dressed also in their vestments, and all the rest clothed in white, to meet Alexander, and not to fear any evil from that king, inasmuch as He would protect them. This command was punctually obeyed; and, accordingly, this grand procession, the very day after, marched out of the city to an eminence, where there was a view of all the plain, as well as of the temple and city of Jerusalem."

Here the high priest and his company awaited the approach of the terrible conqueror surrounded by his victorious bands. The boldest amongst the Jews might well tremble before the destroyer of Tyre. But great was the astonishment, both of the Macedonians and the Jews, at the scene which ensued, when the victorious monarch met the unarmed and defenceless Jaddus.

"Alexander was struck by the sight of the high priest, on whose mitre and forehead a gold plate was fixed, on which the name of God was written. The moment the king perceived the high priest, he advanced towards him with an air of the most profound respect, bowed his body, adored the august Name upon his front, and saluted him who wore it with a religious veneration . . . All the spectators were seized with inexpressible surprise; they could scarcely believe their eyes. . . Parmenio, who could not yet recover from his astonishment, asked the king how it came to pass that he, who was adored by every one, adored the high priest of the Jews.

"'I do not,' replied Alexander, 'but the God whose minister he is; for whilst I was at Dia in Macedonia, my mind wholly fixed on the great design of the Persian war, as I was revolving the methods how to conquer Asia, this very man, dressed in the same robes, appeared to me in a dream, exhorted me to dismiss every fear, bid me cross the Hellespont boldly, and assured me that God would march at the head of my army, and give me the victory over that of the Persians.' Alexander having thus answered Parmenio, embraced the high priest and all his brethren; then, walking in the midst of them, he arrived at Jerusalem, where he offered sacrifices to God in the temple, after the manner prescribed to him by the high priest."

Let us now see placed before us in the Scriptures the mitre, as appointed by God Himself to be worn by the high priest of Israel: "Thou shalt make a plate of pure gold, and grave upon it, like the engravings of a signet, HOLINESS TO THE LORD. And thou shalt put it on a blue lace, that it may be upon the mitre; upon the forefront of the mitre it shall be. And it shall be upon Aaron's forehead . . . And they made the plate of the holy crown of pure gold, and wrote upon it a writing, like to the engravings of a signet, HOLINESS TO THE LORD." It was before such a mitre as this, or rather before Him whose Name appeared on the mitre, that the proud head of earth's mightiest conqueror was bowed low in adoration.

We know that there was a solemn meaning in the various portions of the high priest's garments, and the words inscribed on his "holy crown" leave us in no doubt as to what it symbolized. He who appeared before the Majesty of Heaven to plead for Israel, and to offer the appointed sacrifices, must be holy unto the Lord. Yet how often must the weak, fallible high priest, have been humbled by the very dignity of his office, when he contrasted his own infirmity and sin with the spotless purity symbolized by his mitre!

With heavy heart must an Aaron or an Eli have bound that holy crown on their brows, when conscious of having fallen under the displeasure of the Most High! When we think of the sacred emblem being proudly worn by a Caiaphas, its being polluted by contact with that man of blood, our Lord's image of the "whited sepulchre" rises vividly before us; how fair, pure, holy, that which was without, while the dark mind within was festering corruption!

There was but one High priest who could appear before God in innate purity, "holy, harmless, undefiled, separate from sinners." It was He who wore on His bleeding temples the crown of thorns instead of the mitre; He who had HOLINESS TO THE LORD not borne aloft on His brow, but woven into every action of His life. What Aaron symbolized, that was the Lord Jesus Christ.

Before Him, arrayed in the majesty of His spotless purity, every knee shall bow, earth's proudest kings shall fall down and adore Him. "Wherefore He is able also to save them to the uttermost that come unto God by Him, seeing He ever liveth to make intercession for them."

XII.

THE high priest's mitre affords to us another, and a very wide field for meditation.

Under the Jewish dispensation, the priesthood was confined to one tribe, and the sacred crown was worn by one man; but since the rending of the veil that shrouded the Holy of Holies, all Christ's servants, even the lowly woman, even the feeble child, become "a royal priesthood," as well as "a peculiar people." The "crown of life" is for those—for all those who love the Lord Jesus supremely. The song of the redeemed is a chorus of thanksgiving unto Him who "hath made us kings and priests unto God and His Father." Surely it is in allusion to the inscription upon Aaron's mitre that it is written of the blessed in the kingdom of Christ, "His name shall be in their foreheads," according to His own gracious promise, "I will write upon him the name of My God."

There is, even in this world, a sealing, a marking of the servants of Christ, which conveys an idea both of dignity and of consecration. Very remarkable is that passage in Ezekiel which records the vision granted to the seer of the mysterious One whose "likeness was as the appearance of fire;" and the six, each with a slaughter-weapon in his hand, who signify the ministers of God's vengeance: "The glory of the God of Israel was gone up from the cherub, whereupon He was, to the threshold of the house. And He called to the man clothed with linen . . . And the Lord said unto him, Go through the midst of the city, through the midst of Jerusalem, and set a mark upon the foreheads of the men that sigh and that cry for all the abominations that be done in the midst thereof. And to the others He said . . . Go ye after him through the city, and smite . . . but come not near any man upon whom is the mark." The ministers of wrath were to spare God's people, marked as those who in the midst of a sinful generation mourned for the general corruption, and by doing so, showed that they at least valued and desired "holiness unto the Lord."

This inscription, the sentence graven upon Aaron's mitre, is, then, what all God's servants should wear—it is for them a distinguishing mark. But does this appear to be the case; is "holiness unto the Lord" the visible sign and seal of the Christian's high calling? There are many who are recognized as active, honourable, useful, zealous servants of God, but how few could we single out as being eminent for holiness!

And how, it may be asked, can holiness be defined? As that purity of thought and heart which the Spirit alone can bestow; that abhorrence of sin which is something far higher than mere abstinence from sin. The man who bears the stamp of holiness, will detect and grieve over the lightest stain upon conscience; the coarse allusion, however witty, the drunkard's song, or the scoffer's jest, will never raise a smile on his lips: nor are they so likely to be heard in his presence; for the world, like Alexander, is often constrained to pay homage where holiness is legibly inscribed, and the silence of one whose habitual walk is with God, impresses more than the open rebuke of a more inconsistent believer. Deep reverence for God and God's Word is an accompaniment of "holiness unto the Lord;" the heavenly-minded Christian will not jest with sacred things, nor lightly use quotations from Scripture.

It is the holy Christian, or to use the much abused, yet most expressive Scripture term, the "saint," who earnestly endeavours to "bring into captivity every thought to the obedience of Christ." How marvellous is that constant current of thought flowing through every mind, silently, secretly, like a narrow stream between banks so steep that we cannot catch a glimpse of its course, and can but trace it by the vegetation on either side, as our usual current of thought is judged of by our words and our actions! How often, when seated amongst silent companions—as, for instance, when travelling with strangers—have we reflected how interesting it would be, could we gain a glimpse of that stream of thought passing unceasingly through each brain; could we know whether it sparkles with hope, or "flows deeply and darkly" in shadow; whether it bears along golden grains of holy meditation, or mere bubbles of folly to break at a touch, or if the current be fetid and polluted with ideas that the lips would not dare for shame to form into words! Could the thoughts of the travellers in one railway-carriage, during a single hour of silence, be so photographed as to become visible to all, how marvellous would appear the difference between those of the worldling and those of the saint; though, alas! the musings of the holiest child of Adam would be found no pure and untainted stream, reflecting Heaven perfectly within its crystal depths.

The contrast would be yet more striking were the thoughts thus laid open to view those which had flowed during an hour of public worship. The posture of the body, the words of the mouth, might be the same, but the current of thought would appear as different in individuals, as the pestilential drainage from a marsh from the clear brooklet bearing health and fertility wherever it flows. It is impossible for us to obtain this glimpse of the stream, this knowledge of the thoughts in the minds of others, but have we ever endeavoured to gain it as regards our own? Have we tried to retrace the windings of the current for one single hour, and so enabled ourselves to estimate more correctly whether God's grace has in any degree purified "the issues of life," and imparted to our souls some measure of "holiness unto the Lord"?

Is such purity of thought actually requisite for—actually indispensable to a true Christian? To judge by the standard of the world, even that which is called the religious world, we should at once conclude that it is not. The pre-eminently spiritual Christian stands almost as singular amongst his brethren as did the high priest of Israel amongst the sons of Levi. But is not this because Christians live below their privileges, so that comparatively few let their light so shine before men that God is glorified in His saints? Let us, ere we close our meditations on Aaron's mitre and its inscription, earnestly, prayerfully, revolve the solemn exhortation addressed to the servants of Christ: "Follow peace with all men, and HOLINESS, without which no man shall see the Lord."

XIII.

IT is with a sigh that we look on aught that reminds us of Balaam, the highly honoured, the highly gifted—he "which heard the words of God, and knew the knowledge of the Most High, which saw the vision of the Almighty, falling into a trance, but having his eyes open." In Balaam we behold a mournful example of light without heat, knowledge without practical wisdom, the gift of prophecy without that more excellent gift of charity.

Here is the staff which Balaam grasped when eagerly setting forth upon his unholy errand, desiring to curse those whom he knew that his God had blessed. What was in the heart of the seer, when, with repeated blows from that staff, he strove to urge forward the reluctant, frightened ass which he rode? Not jealousy for the honour of God—not impatience to carry the blessing of religious knowledge to Moab; but one absorbing desire for his own advancement—his own profit, though at the cost of the misery and the ruin of God's chosen people! Most forcible is the expression used by one of our most talented writers to describe a character utterly selfish, such as that of Balaam appears to have been: "A selfish man's heart is 'just the size of his coffin;' it has room to contain but himself." A description which presents to us an image not only of narrowness, but of death.

Balaam was one whose conduct belied his words. He was as a branch drawn back by main strength, but as soon as the outward pressure is removed, returning—springing back into its natural position. Fear was to him as a strong force drawing him back from sin, but only as long as the pressure remained. "Let me die the death of the righteous, and let my last end be like his!" Such was the aspiration on the lips of the prophet; but thoughts of covetousness, followed by an act of sin and the shameful death to which it led, make the history of Balaam a terrible warning to inconsistent professors of religion throughout all ages.

It is, then, possible that a man may preach to others, and yet be himself a cast away; that he may be admired, followed, looked up to as a leader in religion, and yet have no real life in his faith. He may guide others to wealth, yet be himself miserably poor! There is an analogy between the fate of such a man and that of Rose and Dietz, two explorers in North America, who discovered a creek so rich in gold, that its treasures have, for four years in succession, maintained more than sixteen thousand people, some of whom have left the country with large fortunes. *

Surely those whose feet first trod this land of gold—those who led the way where thousands have triumphantly followed, must have turned their knowledge into boundless wealth, and have been amongst the richest of mankind! So we might well conjecture, till we read the record of their fate. Dietz returned unsuccessful to Victoria, where he was struck down by fever, and obliged to receive help from charity. The fate of Rose was sadder still. He "disappeared for months; and his body was found at length by a party of miners in a journey of discovery, far out on the wilds. On the branch of a tree hard by hung his tin cup, and scratched upon it with the point of a knife, was his name and the words, 'Dying of starvation!'" Did visions flit before the eyes of the famishing man of the vast wealth which he had discovered, but never enjoyed—of thousands feasting on the golden harvest to which he had guided them, while not a single crumb was his portion to save him from a terrible death!

Darker must have been the thoughts of Balaam, if time for thought was left, as his life-blood ebbed away where he lay involved in the fate—as he had been in the guilt—of the enemies of the Lord! To him had been revealed mysterious treasures of knowledge—his eyes had been opened, his mind enlightened. To him the Almighty had spoken—to him an angel had appeared—to him had been vouchsafed a prophetic glimpse of the Star that should come out of Jacob, the Sceptre that should rise out Of Israel. If knowledge had power to secure, or spiritual privileges to save, Balaam surely would never have perished.

"Take heed and beware of covetousness." The warning is addressed to all, but it should come with peculiar force to those who are called on—in however narrow a sphere—to deliver the message of God. Their lips must not teach one thing, and their lives another; they must not guide others to the glorious land, and themselves wander away to perish. If they stand in a clearer light than most men, greater is their guilt and their condemnation if they sin against that light.

Covetousness is a snare into which the enlightened, the honoured, the privileged have fallen; it has ruined a Balaam amongst the prophets, a Judas amongst the apostles. And yet how few dread its power over themselves! To be in haste to grow rich, is perhaps the leading characteristic of men in this age: they are impatient of obstacles in their way, as Balaam at the stumbling of the beast that he rode; they see not the opposing angel that stands before them with the warning: "They that will be rich fall into temptation and a snare, and into many foolish and hurtful lusts, which drown men in destruction and perdition. For the love of money is the root of all evil."

XIV.

NO fragile cord this, the "scarlet thread" which Rahab fastened in her window. Its firm twist has borne the weight of the two Israelite spies whom this woman of a doomed race, strong in faith, saved from the pursuit of their enemies. It was a moment of deep anxiety when Rahab led the spies to the casement in the darkness of night, and ere they descended by that scarlet cord, earnestly pleaded with them for the family whom she loved.

"Now therefore, I pray you, swear unto me by the Lord, since I have shewed you kindness, that ye will also show kindness unto my father's house, and give me a true token: and that ye will save alive my father, and my mother, and my brethren, and my sisters, and all that they have, and deliver our lives from death!"

"Our life for yours," answered the men to their brave and generous preserver. "Behold," they afterwards said, "when we come into the land, thou shalt bind this line of scarlet thread in the window which thou didst let us down by: and thou shalt bring thy father, and thy mother, and thy brethren, and all thy father's household, home unto thee. And it shall be, that whosoever shall go out of the doors of thy house into the street, his blood shall be upon his head, and we will be guiltless; and whosoever shall be with thee in the house, his blood shall be on our head, if any hand be upon him."

They were gone, those men of Israel; Rahab had faithfully performed the duties of hospitality, of mercy, and now she remained awaiting in trembling hope, the fulfilment of the promise which they had made. There hung the scarlet line from her window over the wall of the doomed city: on it was now suspended the safety of herself and her household. We picture to ourselves Rahab watching from that window the miraculous passage of the Jordan by Israel's hosts under Joshua; the priests descending into the bed of the river, bearing with them the Ark of the Covenant; and the waters standing on a heap to let the Lord's people go over dry-shod. She beholds the multitudes of Israel,—warriors and women, flocks and herds—streaming across the dry channel of the once rapid river, a countless, an irresistible force, because under the immediate guidance of Him who is omnipotent. We know what was the effect of the marvellous passage on the minds of the people of Canaan: "their heart melted, neither was there spirit in them any more." Rahab might tremble like the rest; but when she looked on that scarlet cord she would yet thank God and take courage. Those terrible hosts of Israel came not as enemies to her.

Then followed the siege of Jericho, the city on whose wall stood the dwelling of Rahab. Day after day the woman of Canaan beheld that mysterious march of the Israelites round the city. Strange and terrible must have appeared the solemn procession which for seven days moved round its walls. First came the seven priests with their trumpets, preceding the Ark of God. The warriors of Israel followed in stern silence; there was no sound of voice from the hosts whose glittering arms were consecrated to the terrible work of executing the sentence passed by a righteous God upon His guilty creatures. Despair would have oppressed the soul of Rahab, who knew but too well that Jericho was given into the hands of its foes, but for that scarlet line, the pledge and token of mercy to her and all in her house.

The seventh day dawned, the last that the city of Jericho—as it then stood—ever should see. Seven times the march of the Israelites encircled the walls. Then with what terror must the household, gathered together in the dwelling on the wall, have heard the blast of the trumpet, followed by that thundering shout before which crashing fell bulwark and battlement—all Jericho's pride and strength! Fearful sounds succeeded; slaughter was raging in the streets; the swords of Israel were bathed in blood! Rahab and her family could not but have experienced emotions of pity and horror, as shuddering they listened to those sounds; but they needed to have no feelings of personal fear: that scarlet cord was to them a surer defence than strongest bulwark or loftiest tower; a surer defence than a phalanx of spears bristling around them. There was no danger to Rahab from falling wall or from enemy's sword; there was no stain on her threshold, no dying cry in her home. By faith, she perished not with them that believed not. She lived to be a mother in Israel, by adoption one of the people of God, if, as is supposed, it was this Rahab who became the wife of Salmon, and the mother of Boaz of Bethlehem, and thus an ancestress of the blessed Saviour Himself.

We naturally suppose that the scarlet cord would be preserved as an heirloom in the family at Bethlehem; that the gentle Ruth, herself a daughter of Abraham by adoption, looked with peculiar interest upon this relic of her husband's Gentile mother; and that young David often gazed with reverential awe on this memorial kept in his father's home of her who, in faith, preserved the Israelitish spies. We can scarcely conceive that such a family relic as this would lightly be cast away.

There is much that reminds us of Christ's Church, in the position of the pale, anxious woman of Jericho, watching from her casement the Israelites encircling the city doomed to destruction, she herself secure in a promise, saved by faith, reserved for blessedness and honour. A thousand years with the Lord is but as a day, and for nearly six such periods has the silent, solemn march of events, brought nearer the grand consummation before us. The Church knows that "the day of the Lord will come as a thief in the night; in the which the heavens shall pass away with a great noise, and the elements shall melt with fervent heat, the earth also and the works that are therein shall be burned up." She is listening with trembling expectation for the sound of the "shout, and the voice of the archangel," and "the trump of God," when the earth shall reel to and fro, and the mountains shall shake, and the mighty cities shall fall! She has nothing to fear in that day: the blood of Christ is her salvation—the angel of destruction will see the token of living faith, and touch not the redeemed of the Lord.

Yes, faith in Christ is our scarlet cord, and there are two lessons which we may learn from the type. Rahab's cord was not left in her dwelling a useless coil; it was employed in God's service, and it was shown forth in sight of the world. What would the mere possession of a scarlet line have availed to Rahab, if she had not used it in doing God's work? Was not Rahab "justified by works, when she had received the messengers, and had sent them out another way"? Nor was her scarlet cord hidden from men; it hung from her window over the wall. So should the Christian's profession of faith be open: he should not only believe in Christ, but serve Him—not only serve Him, but confess Him.

XV.

WE doubt whether the high priest of Israel, in all the glory of his festival robes, wore so costly an ephod as this. His was, indeed, to be of gold and blue and scarlet and fine twisted linen; gold beaten into plates and cut into wires, with engraved jewels in ouches of gold to rest on the shoulder-pieces, very fair to the eye. But a heavier mass of magnificence is before us than even the consecrated garment of Aaron appears to have been; a marvellous weight of gold, such as a Crœsus or a Darius might have worn to dazzle the eyes of their subjects.

Had we asked one of the men of Ophrah in the days of Gideon concerning this gorgeous ephod, his answer might have been something like this: "Behold a nation's offering of gratitude to the hero who burst the bonds of Midian, and made Israel to triumph over their oppressors! Gideon, the favoured of Heaven, the honoured of men! He to whom signs and miracles have been vouchsafed; he whose faith hath made him the deliverer of a nation, yet who hath refused to become its king;—Gideon formed this ephod. 'I would desire a request of you,' said our hero to his warriors: 'That ye would give me every man the ear-rings of his prey.'

"A garment was spread to receive this tribute of gratitude to our chief, and thereon was cast mighty store of jewels and gold, and the purple raiment that had been upon the necks of the kings of Midian. Then made Gideon this ephod from the spoils of the conquered foe. Those who look upon it shall hold his triumph in remembrance; it shall be as a monument to his honour, worthy of him whose valour hath won it."

Such might have been the reply of one of the followers of Gideon, dazzled with the glory of his leader. Very different appears the ephod of gold in the light thrown on it by this brief sentence from Scripture: "Which thing became a snare unto Gideon, and to his house."

It is difficult, at this distance of time, to know exactly the motive of Gideon in making the ephod, or in what way it became a cause of sin. It has been suggested that it was a symbol of Levitical worship set up by Gideon at Ophrah, which drew away the people from Shiloh, the appointed holy place, where the high priest abode in charge of the ark of God. Whether it were this irregularity, or whether a race prone to idolatry actually worshipped the ephod, has not been clearly made known. We are simply told that the ephod was "a snare." The hundreds of shekels of gold, the purple raiment and jewels, were no real blessing to Gideon; he was less safe when he had become the idol of a nation, than when employed in threshing corn beside the wine-press to hide it from Midianite oppressors.

Popularity, however honourably won, is too apt to become, to fallen man, like the ephod of Gideon; the garment of glory is often "a snare." If it led astray a man of character so pious, so noble, so disinterested as Gideon, how much need have all God's servants, when placed in a position of distinction, to take to themselves the warning, "Let him that thinketh he standeth take heed lest he fall."

Those who have earned for themselves an honoured name in what is called "the religious world," are in a situation of peculiar danger. The popular preacher, the eloquent author, the active philanthropist, may, like Gideon, find a snare even in their nobly won honours. Howard shrank from the idea of a statue being raised to him; he was not a man to form jewels into an ephod, he would pour them all into the treasury of the Lord; but in most cases celebrity and distinction are very intoxicating to human nature, even when that nature has been renewed by grace. To be listened to as an oracle, and appealed to as a judge; to be welcomed in high circles, flattered by the gifted and followed by the good, is fraught with peril; all the more real because it is not of a nature to startle conscience, but rather to soothe it to sleep. Those of whom all pious men think well, are naturally tempted also to think well of themselves. It is desirable for such to keep before their eyes the golden ephod; "which thing became a snare unto Gideon."

Even in the comparatively narrow sphere of home there is some danger to him who is the idol of the family, the pope in the dwelling, to him whose will is law to those who love him, and in whose conduct partial eyes can see nothing that is wrong. Love has its own sweet flattery, and he who is constantly exposed to its influence, without the wholesome antidote of the contradiction and opposition to be met with in the world, may seriously suffer from its effects. In the peaceful seclusion of private life, in a pious home from which temptation might appear to be almost shut out, there may be need to remember the golden ephod; "which thing became a snare unto Gideon."

And in the inmost recesses of the heart lurks peril. When a Christian has long maintained, through God's grace, a successful struggle against the world, the flesh, and the devil; when the spiritual hero has resisted outward temptations and overcome inward corruptions, and is conscious that, like Gideon, he has triumphed nobly through faith,—then let him stand on his guard. How strong must be the temptation to form the ephod out of spiritual trophies, when even St. Paul needed a thorn in the flesh to preserve him from being exalted above measure through the abundance of the revelations vouchsafed him! Christian, in Bunyan's allegory, fought bravely in the valley, but slept in the arbour on the hill. Gideon gloriously triumphed in time of war, but in time of peace made the ephod, which became unto him a snare.

The Christian's motto, in the days of spiritual prosperity as well as the dark days of trouble, should be: "God forbid that I should glory, save in the cross of our Lord Jesus Christ."

XVI.

A GREATER contrast could scarcely be found than that presented to view between the last object of our contemplation and this. The golden ephod is gorgeous and fair; here we look on an unsightly bone, a relic of the despised animal that crops the thistle, bears the burden and the blow. The jackals might reject it, the passenger's foot kick it aside. It has in itself no beauty, no dignity, no value; and but for finding it carefully preserved in Scripture, we would not pause to give it a thought.

The practical lesson suggested by this bone contrasts well with that drawn from the ephod: if the latter showed us the weakness of human nature even in the noblest of men, the former teaches us what God can make of the most common—most humble instrument. Through Him, the jawbone of an ass became a more terrible weapon than the keenest steel had ever been in the hand of the strongest man. Samson, after the victory which he had won single-handed, exclaimed: "With the jawbone of an ass, heaps upon heaps, with the jaw of an ass have I slain a thousand men!" And then, as if even he despised the instrument which he had used, when he had made an end of speaking, he cast the jawbone away.

But that which man threw aside, God had chosen for peculiar honour. Samson was to feel his own weakness in the midst of his strength. He who had slain a thousand found himself ready to perish for lack of a draught of water. The proud boast of Samson was soon followed by humble prayer:

"Thou hast given this great deliverance into the hand of Thy servant: and now shall I die for thirst, and fall into the hand of the uncircumcised?"

God heard the cry, and answered it by a miracle. The dead bone became a spring of living refreshment: "God clave an hollow place that was in the jaw, and there came water thereout."

Once more the despised thing was eagerly raised by the hand of the mighty Samson. "When he had drunk, his spirit came again, and he revived: wherefore he called the name thereof Enhakkore," which is, "The well of him that cried."

The wonders accomplished by means of this jawbone illustrate the declaration of St. Paul, which proud man is so slow to receive: "God hath chosen the foolish things of the world to confound the wise; and God hath chosen the weak things of the world to confound the things which are mighty; and base things of the world, and things which are despised, hath God chosen." There is encouragement to the lowliest in these words, and they may also serve as a rebuke to those who act in the spirit of the man in the parable, who, possessing but one talent, hid it; that hopeless, apathetic, listless spirit, which those who foster it are too apt to mistake for humility of soul.

We have seen the danger of self-exaltation, but there is a danger on the opposite side; there is a cowardly shrinking from performance of duty from a sense of our own deficiencies. Even Moses fell into this error: "I am slow of speech, and of a slow tongue," cried he, seeking an excuse for not undertaking the mission on which God would send him.

And the Lord said unto him, "Who hath made man's mouth? or who maketh the dumb, or deaf, or the seeing, or the blind? have not I the Lord?"

And when Moses persisted in declining the office of which he felt himself to be unworthy, "the anger of the Lord was kindled." For whatever work God gives His people to do, He will provide them with an instrument. There are those who say in their hearts, "Had I but wealth, how largely would I give! How much good would I do!" or, "Had I but strength, how actively would I engage in the work of the Lord!" Had Samson been like these, he might have exclaimed, "Oh, had I but a sword in my hand, I would put these Philistines to flight!" But Samson uttered no such idle exclamation; he caught up the nearest weapon at hand; he used what he found, though it was but an ass's jawbone, and God made it effectual to put to flight the army of the aliens.

So the imprisoned Bunyan did not sit down in his prison despairing, murmuring forth, "Had I but 'liberty,' I would declare God's truth;" nor, in our own times, Moon * exclaim, "Had I but 'sight,' I would be useful in my generation." No, the imprisoned and the blind both worked with brave, hopeful resolution; and both have been enabled to do more for God's glory and the welfare of mankind than have tens of thousands of Christians possessing the advantages lacked by these servants of God.

* This blind man has given portions of the Scriptures in embossed letters to those afflicted like himself in "fifty-six languages!"

Hope is classed by St. Paul with faith and charity: it is closely connected with both. Christian Hope, born of Faith in the truth, the power, and the mercy of God, gives energy to Charity in all her active labours of love. "Our Lord can make a weak instrument strong, a worthless instrument effectual; He could bless even 'that'!" whispers Hope, as she points to the jawbone so mighty in the hand of Faith.

And thus still may the weary worker, disheartened by difficulties, "faint, yet pursuing," drink in refreshment, and gain vigour for new efforts, like Samson, from the bone of an ass.

XVII.

MEEKLY stooped Ruth to gather up these scattered grains of the golden harvest which the servants of Boaz, the "mighty man of wealth," were bearing home to his garners. But not the gleanings alone, but the fulness of the harvest also was to be Ruth's, by her union with the lord of the land; the fields in which the young widow in loneliness toiled, were to become the possession of the bride.

"Blessed are the neck, for they shall inherit the earth." This is a peculiar promise, made to the lowly, of whom Ruth, bending down to glean in the barley-field, may be regarded as a type. In what especial manner that promise is to be fulfilled in a future state we know not, but it is an interesting subject for our musings to consider how the meek are now "gleaning," as it were, some ears of the rich harvest of which the full enjoyment will one day be their own.

It is the more needful for us to turn our thoughts to this subject, from meekness being little valued on Earth, though highly esteemed in Heaven. Men are apt to class it with a cringing, cowardly spirit; forgetting that Moses, who faced boldly both the wrath of the tyrant and the fury of the people, firm and lofty in soul as he was, is yet called the meekest of men.

But in what way do the meek, like Ruth, now glean the first ears of a plenteous harvest reserved for their possession hereafter?

In the first place, by that "contentment" which is proverbially better than riches, the tranquil enjoyment of what God has bestowed instead of the misery caused by cankering envy and restless ambition. While the covetous man cannot be said to enjoy anything which he does not himself actually possess, and looks with pain rather than pleasure on the rich beauties of property not his own, the meek already "inherit the earth" by "the right of the eye." The delight afforded to the Christian by the fair landscape spreading before him, has been well described by Cowper:—

"He looks abroad into the varied field
Of Nature, and though poor, perhaps, compared
With those whose mansions glitter in his sight,
Calls the delightful scenery all his own.
His are the mountains, and the valleys his,
And the resplendent rivers; his to enjoy
With a propriety which none can feel
But who, with filial confidence inspired,
Can lift to Heaven an unpresumptuous eye,
And smiling say, 'My Father made them all.'"

Secondly, there is a special promise of the gift of "wisdom" to the humble: "The meek will He guide in judgment: and the meek will He teach His way." This wisdom, "which is from above," is shown in various ways, by those whose powers of mind are otherwise very limited, as well as by the highly intellectual Christian. Those taught of God's Spirit have the wisdom to set a right value on the things of eternity as compared with the things of time; to choose the good and refuse the evil, to prefer what is perfect and imperishable to the glittering baubles of earth. This is higher, more sublime, wisdom than any mere intellectual training can bestow.

And the wisdom of the meek is constantly shown in their way of receiving rebuke from a fellow-creature, or chastening from the Most High. The word of counsel or of reproof which only stirs up anger in the breast of the proud, is often of the utmost service to the meek: "He that heareth reproof getteth understanding. A reproof entereth more into a wise man than an hundred stripes into a fool."

The chastenings of God likewise, under which the proud spirit rebels, become blessings indeed when received with that meekness of wisdom which can say, "It is the Lord; let Him do what seemeth Him good; His will, not my will, be done." Surely such a spirit of true wisdom is a most precious earnest of that spirit of perfect wisdom which will be the portion of the blessed!

Thirdly, the meek have "peace;" not perfect, indeed, but as it were gleanings, of the heavenly harvest: "The meek shall inherit the earth; and shall delight themselves in the abundance of peace." Theirs is the soft answer which turneth away wrath; "only by pride cometh contention." The meek "overcome evil with good," and so show themselves followers of Him whose title is PRINCE OF PEACE.

And lastly, it is in the hearts of the lowly that the Lord deigns to make His abode: "For thus saith the high and lofty One that inhabiteth eternity, whose name is Holy; I dwell in the high and holy place, with him also that is of a contrite and humble spirit, to revive the spirit of the humble, and to revive the heart of the contrite ones."

Surely contentment, wisdom, peace, and a sweet sense of the Saviour's presence, are rich golden grains gleaned here of that harvest of light which has been sown for the children of light, which they will enjoy in perfection when the Church, the Heavenly Bride, is raised from grace to glory! Only gleanings, indeed, yet precious gleanings, and to be gathered by those who are ready, like Ruth, to stoop, to labour, and to endure.

The foot of Pride crushes these golden grains; Humility bends down, grasps them by faith, and carries them home in her bosom. "Learn of He, for I am meek and lowly," said the Lord of the harvest; and it is for the meek and lowly that the treasures of the harvest are laid up above.

XVIII.

WHAT an aching, what a bursting heart throbbed under this, the garment of sorrow chosen by him who could once say, in the sincerity of his soul, "I put on righteousness, and it clothed me: my judgment was as a robe and a diadem."

To the history of Job, God's afflicted people have constantly turned in their hours of anguish. This sackcloth has, as it were, helped to dry up the tears of thousands; for who can say, "My sorrows have been greater than those of Job!" Whose have equalled his—and yet the Lord loved him through all, and out of all delivered him. So great was the variety of the afflictions of Job, that under almost any burden that presses down the spirit, we can look to Job in his sackcloth and say, "He also was crushed by the weight of this cross."

Is poverty our trial, and poverty rendered more painful by contrast with former prosperity? On Job it came with fearful suddenness, like successive shocks of an earthquake. He had been a wealthy man. He had multitudes of camels and oxen; the valleys were whitened with the thousands of his sheep. All his property was swept away from him, he was left poor and bare upon earth. Yet could the ruined man meekly say,—

Or are we weeping sorely for the loss of one who was to our eyes as the sunshine; are we in bitterness of soul because some sweet voice is silenced in our home, and there is a blank left in our aching hearts which we feel that time can never fill up? Job lost all his children at once! Those whose successive births had given him fresh joy, new precious ties to earth; those who had sported round him in childhood, and in youth received his counsels; those in whose happiness he had been happy;—all reft from him by one stroke! Not one left to soothe his anguish by sharing it! Is it not a marvel that reason endured it, that the patriarch's heart did not break indeed?

But we may lose those whom we have loved by a separation far worse than that caused by death. This was a cross which almost crushed the spirit of Job: "My friends scorn me: my kinsfolk have failed, and my familiar friends have forgotten me. My breath is strange to my wife, though I intreated for the children's sake. All my inward friends abhorred me: and they whom I loved are turned against me!" Where is the burden of family trial endured by a Christian now that can weigh in the balance against such a mountain of sorrow as this?

Is our cross that of sickness and pain? We behold Job suffering all the tortures which the malice of a fiend could inflict, stretched on the rack of most acute suffering, and that for no brief space of time: "I am made to possess months of vanity, and wearisome nights are appointed to me. When I lie down, I say, When shall I arise, and the night be gone? and I am full of tossings to and fro unto the dawning of the day. My skin is black upon me, and my bones are burned with heat."

Nor were Job's sufferings those of the body alone: his was the wounded spirit, the tormented mind, oppressed with fear, with temptation, and with mysterious terrors: "Thou scarest me with dreams, and terrifiest me through visions: so that my soul chooseth strangling, and death rather than my life. I loathe it; I would not live alway! The arrows of the Almighty are within me, the poison whereof drinketh up my spirit: the terrors of God do set themselves in array against me. Wherefore is light given to him that is in misery, and life unto the bitter in soul; which long for death, but it cometh not?" Truly the spirit of Job, as well as his tortured body, was clothed in the sackcloth of mourning!

The question naturally arises, "Why was so good a man as Job thus overwhelmed with affliction; almost, as it would seem, abandoned for a while to the malice of the Enemy? God had Himself said of Job, 'There is none like him on the earth, a perfect and an upright man.'"

It cannot be that Job was thus chastened only to show forth his patience in the sight of men and devils; great as was that patience, we know that it wavered in the trial. Nor do we suppose that Job's miseries were permitted only that he might be thoroughly humbled before God; still less that he suffered only that his history might be for the lasting instruction of the Church. All these advantages, indeed, followed; but the more we reflect on the subject, the more clearly we see that some great, personal, and lasting benefit must have accrued to Job from every pang that he endured. There was a proportion between his anguish and his subsequent joy. It is delicate ground on which we now enter: it would be a perilous error to hold that sorrow of itself sanctifies; that because a man suffers much here, he must necessarily rejoice hereafter. So is it a perilous error to hold that any good works of men's doing can ever earn Heaven.

But how clearly and forcibly the Rev. Mr. Arnot places before us the blessed effects of good works, not as a means of salvation, but as a precious evidence of grace! "As ciphers added one by one in an endless row to the 'left' hand of an unit are of no value, but on the 'right' hand rapidly multiply in power; so, although good works are of no avail to make a Christian, yet a Christian's good works are both pleasing to God and profitable to men."

So may it be with the sufferings which saints are called to endure—not self-inflicted pangs, but trials appointed by God. Numerous passages in Holy Writ lead us to such a conclusion: "Our light affliction, which is but for a moment, worketh for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory."

Yes; there is a mystery in suffering which we do not fully understand, nor perhaps ever will, until suffering is exchanged for bliss everlasting. Preeminence in pain appears to be connected with preeminence in glory. What was the answer of our Lord to those who asked for the highest places in Heaven? "Ye know not what ye ask. Can ye drink of the cup that I drink of?" We cannot fathom the depth of meaning contained in the words that even He, the Captain of our salvation, was made "perfect through suffering," but we know that the cup which He drained was one of unutterable woe. The very description of the saints in bliss seems to be the fulfilment of the blessing on them that mourn: "These are they which came out of great tribulation." To them God hath appointed "beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness."

The fearful afflictions of Job remind us of the saying, that God, like a human general, gives His best soldiers the most difficult post, places them under the hottest fire. There is a striking passage in the Book of Proverbs, which, it has been observed, makes a distinction between two metals, both precious, but one of nobler nature than the other: "The fining pot is for silver, and the furnace for gold." Both are exposed to the heat of tribulation, but the furnace-glow, the hottest trial, is that which the gold undergoes. If it be indeed thus, how should long-continued prosperity exercise our humility as well as our gratitude! What the world regards as proofs of God's favour, may be rather signs of His indulgence for the weakness of His feebler saints! He keeps on easy garrison-duty those whose faith is not yet equal to the greater hardships and perils, to be followed by the greater glories, of the battlefield of life. What a high post of honour was assigned by Him to the veteran Job! We look upon his sackcloth as the warrior's uniform covered with decorations by the King of kings!

This view of the secret connection, in the case of the redeemed, between present pain and future pleasure, the "evil things" here, and the "good things" hereafter, throws some light on the otherwise almost inexplicable mystery of the sufferings of idiots and of infants. These sufferings can neither be chastenings for wilful sin nor exercises of patience, yet they are permitted by a God of love who "doth not afflict willingly." How solacing to the affection, how strengthening to the faith of parents witnessing the pangs of the innocent, to feel that, in some way that we understand not, God makes the seed sown in tears rise into the harvest of joy; that not one cry of pain from a baby's lips is uttered in vain!

Thus we may believe, dear afflicted brethren, that ye have indeed cause to rejoice in tribulation; that poverty, bereavement, depression, pain, through Him who led the way on the path of suffering, will all be found to enhance the joy and the glory of Heaven. Perhaps the depth of the pit of woe may bear some proportion to the height of the monument to God's love, for which its very mire and clay will furnish materials in a future state of bliss. Therefore sorrow not as those without hope; nay, let your hope become brighter through your very sorrow, like the rainbow on the cataract which owes its beauty to the waters which seem in their furious washings to seek to sweep it away.

XIX.

CONQUERORS are wont to hang up trophies of victories, the arms the standards won from the enemy; it is as such a trophy that this mutilated, unsightly idol, or rather fragment of an idol, is preserved in the Scripture collection, a witness to the power of the God of salvation, by whom at length all idols shall be utterly abolished, when the knowledge of the Lord shall cover the earth, as the waters cover the sea.

The Philistines had won a great victory at Ebenezer; their foes had fled before them: there had been a very great slaughter; thirty thousand of the warriors of Israel had fallen on that fatal day, and a terrible wail of woe had risen from the dwellings of Shiloh. The rejoicings of the victors were the more exultant from the fears which had beset them before the fight began. The worshippers of Dagon had a dread of the power of the God of the Hebrews. The Ark of the Covenant had, before the battle, been brought into the camp of Israel, and had been welcomed there as a pledge of certain victory. All Israel had shouted with a great shout, so that the earth rang again; and the sound of that exulting cheer had reached the camp of the Philistines, and spread there a feeling of foreboding and alarm. The Philistines had been afraid, and they had said, "God is come into the camp! Woe unto us! for there hath not been such a thing heretofore. Woe unto us! who shall deliver us out of the hand of these mighty Gods? Be strong, and quit yourselves like men, O ye Philistines, that ye be not servants unto the Hebrews, as they have been to you: quit yourselves like men, and fight!"

Thus with something like the courage of despair had the Philistines entered on the conflict. Victory seems to have taken them by surprise, and the more unexpected, the more welcome must it have been. Glorious tidings were borne to Askelon, loud were the rejoicings in Gath; Israel had been signally defeated, the Ark of the Lord had been taken, the Hebrew priests had fallen while vainly defending it. There was wild exultation in England after a Cressy, or an Agincourt, but there was an element in the triumph of the Philistines which was wanting to swell the joy of our ancestors; the victory of Ebenezer was not merely success in a hard-fought battle between rival hosts or races—it was deemed the triumph of Dagon, the fish-god, over the God of Israel. It was into the temple of Dagon that the Ark of the Covenant was exultingly brought, the noblest trophy of victory, a token of the conquering might of him whom the Philistines worshipped.

But God then, as ever, over-ruled the brief triumph of His enemies to His own glory. When the priests of Ashdod arose early in the morning, to their horror they beheld their idol prostrate on the earth before the Ark of the Lord. Surely this might have proved to them the folly of bowing down to that which had fallen before the symbol of God's presence. But the evident helplessness of Dagon seems to have made no change in the infatuation of his priests. They set him in his place again; he was still the god of the Philistines!

Yet more signally was the worthlessness of the idol to be proved in the sight of his priests. When they arose early on the morrow, behold, Dagon was fallen on his face to the ground before the Ark of the Lord; and the head of Dagon and both the palms of his hands were cut off upon the threshold; only the stump (or fishy part) of Dagon was left.

Here was evidence calculated to convince even the most superstitious of the folly of idolatry. The head—the supposed seat of knowledge and wisdom—was wanting; the hands—the emblems of power—were broken off. Dagon had evidently no means of helping either himself or his worshippers. Might we not have expected that conviction of the absurdity of adoring such an image would have flashed across the minds of the priests and people of Ashdod; that the temple would have rung with the shout, "The Lord, He is God! the Lord, He is God!" Nay; the idol was broken indeed, but the stump remained to be venerated still! The very threshold on which it had lain prostrate was for its sake treated with respect. The miserable relic of superstition was still spoken of as "Dagon our god!"

Such infatuation might well surprise us, did we not so frequently see its counterpart now. The human heart still sets up its idol; the young, full of hope and joy like the Philistines after their victory, pay homage to the world, and expect from it those pleasures and delights which it is ever promising to bestow. Dagon has a lofty shrine, and many bow down before it. Then comes some providential dispensation of sorrow, that opens the eyes to the fact that the world and the things of the world have no power to secure our peace. Have we not known such a moment, when Dagon is seen prostrate on earth, and we feel that he is indeed but an idol?

Happy for us if the knowledge make us turn to One who is over all, God exalted for ever!

But it is not always that sorrow and disappointment wean the soul from the world. We too often find Dagon set up again on his shrine, and as ardently worshipped as ever. Yes, even the gray-headed, the weary-hearted, who from repeated trials know the hollowness of the world and its sinful pleasures—who have, as it were, but the stump of the idol left—too often, even to the last, fondly worship that stump! The dreary lament may be heard,—

"My days are in the yellow leaf—
The flower, the fruit of love are gone;
The worm, the canker, and the grief
Remain alone!" *

Without one sigh of true penitence, one upward look towards Him who can give rest to the heavy-laden.

Our last subject of thought was sanctified sorrow, that sorrow which must be succeeded by joy as—

but it is well to remember that there is also a "sorrow of the world," that "worketh death." If God throw down our idols, it is not that we should raise them again and adore them all broken and mutilated as they may be.

"The dearest idol I have known,
Whate'er that idol be,
Help me to tear it from Thy throne,
And worship only Thee!"

XX.

REPEATEDLY do we read in the Bible of the javelin or spear of King Saul: it is, of course, impossible for us to know whether it is the same identical weapon that is mentioned on each occasion; we may, however, take this for granted, as the mental eye rests upon this ancient weapon, once grasped in the hand of Israel's first monarch, the unhappy Saul.

On three occasions that iron barb would have been stained with innocent blood, had not the king in his blind fury missed his aim. As David, the hero-minstrel, sat playing before the king, the evil spirit came upon Saul, and, in a sudden paroxysm of jealous hatred, he attempted to smite David to the wall. But the intended victim evaded the blow, and escaped from the fury of the king.

After this proof of the malice and hatred of Saul, it is a sign of the trustfulness of David's character that we find him again attempting to soothe with music the deep melancholy of the king. Once more David narrowly escaped with his life from the javelin, which, aimed at his body, struck the wall by which he had been placed.

Many events had occurred between Saul's two attempts upon the life of David. The son of Jesse had distinguished himself in fight against the Philistines; he had won the hand, as he had gained the affections of Michal, daughter of the king; Jonathan had by his influence induced Saul to swear that David's life should be safe in his hands; yet that javelin was again raised by the furious tyrant against his faithful subject, the beloved husband of his child.

Once more that weapon was hurled by the king, and with yet more unnatural cruelty, this time against his own son, the noble Jonathan, whose crime in the eyes of his father was fidelity to his friend. Never had Saul more cause to thank God for undeserved mercy than when he received back that javelin unstained, not wrenched from the corpse of a murdered son. It was as though the weapon refused to be the instrument of unnatural crime.

The last occasion on which we hear of the spear of Saul is one of singular interest. Before us rises the hill of Hachilah, with the dark shroud of night around it, where Saul the king and his chosen thousands lie stretched in deepest sleep. The spear of the slumbering monarch is stuck into the ground close to his pillow. We almost wonder that Saul with a conscience so stained by guilt, he being at the time actually engaged in an attempt to hunt David to the death, can sleep so soundly. He does not see the forms that have approached the spot where he lies, he does not hear the sound of their footsteps nor the stern whisper of Abishai, who stands with David beside him, "God hath delivered thine enemy into thine hand this day: now therefore let me smite him, I pray thee, with the spear even to the earth at once, and I will not smite him the second time." Saul's weapon may now be grasped by a hand that will not miss its aim, and be wielded with a deadly force that shall make no second blow needful. Surely the hour of vengeance is come! It is but just retribution that he who has thrice attempted murder with a javelin should by a javelin be smitten to the earth.

So human nature might reason, so human resentment would urge; yet David spares his enemy and reverences his king. "The Lord forbid that I should stretch forth mine hand against the Lord's anointed!" David only takes the spear and the cruse of water from the bolster of the king, and bears them away as tokens that his foe has been in his power, but that he has abstained from injuring one who has inflicted the most deadly wrongs upon him.

As forgiveness is one of the most difficult of all graces to exercise, and yet is indispensable to the Christian, it is well for us all, as in the sight of God, to search and try our hearts as regards our feelings towards those who have offered us injury or insult. We may take it for granted that no real Christian will deliberately seek revenge, and that there are few who habitually use the petition, "forgive us our trespasses as we forgive them that trespass against us," who will actually refuse pardon if entreated.

But I fear that we shall find that when the first ebullition of anger has boiled over, and all appears quiet again, there is a residue of "malice" left behind in many a heart that is no stranger to the fear of the Lord. "I forgive, but I cannot forget," is a very common expression, and we may generally infer from it that dregs of ill-will remain, readily stirred up to embitter the spirit, and often to colour the language and conduct.

There are few who have not something to forgive, few whose comfort has not been assailed by the selfishness or envy of another. Have you, dear reader, suffered wrong? Perhaps you may reply, "grievous wrong;" but calmly weigh what you have borne from the malice of men with what David had to endure; with that spear before you as a reminder, think on what he could suffer, and yet so forgive that not only did he twice spare his enemy when in his power, but he poured forth a touching elegy to his honour, in which not one of the errors of Saul was mentioned, not one of his own wrongs recalled.

When we receive injury, it is usually in our "prospects," our "peace," or our "character;" how was it with David? The man to whom he had rendered most essential services sought to ruin him, to blacken his fame; again and again Saul attempted his life; the king drove David from his home, hunted him like a partridge on the mountains, slew those who had shown him kindness, and wounded him most cruelly in his affections by giving his wife to another! Beside such a mountain of accumulated wrongs, how small and trivial appear the injuries which we may have had to sustain! If David, who had never heard the command breathed from the lips of Him who Himself prayed for His murderers, "Love your enemies, do good to them that hate you," if David could forgive even Saul, how can any Christian make excuse for harbouring resentment against any whom he thinks have done him a wrong!

If we look beyond second causes to the one first cause, the ordering of Him who maketh all things work together for good to them that love Him, we shall see that no enemy can injure us, unless by drawing us into sin; that no wrong but will prove a blessing, save a wrong which "we will not forgive."

If our enemy seem to mar our worldly prospects, he is as the thorny hedge planted by God to keep us from wandering out of the strait path which leads through the valley of humiliation. If by a thousand petty acts of unkindness, he try our temper and mar our peace, he is the file in the hand of Him who maketh the wrath of man to praise Him; a file whose roughness is to shape, polish, and prepare the living stones for God's temple. If our enemy assail our character, then is his malice the cross which God bids us carry after the Saviour, who, though without spot or taint of sin, was accused of many things, condemned, and led forth as a malefactor.

Those who, through God's grace, can forgive freely as they themselves ask to be forgiven, will find at length that the thorny hedge will blossom into fragrance and beauty, the file prove but an instrument of good, the cross bring them more close unto Him in whose favour is life, peace, and joy!

XXI.

THERE is pathetic interest in this memorial of Jonathan, prince of Israel. When the mental eye rests on the unstrung bow once grasped in his strong firm hand, we recall the touching lament of David over him who fell on the mountain of Gilboa. "How are the mighty fallen in the midst of the battle! O Jonathan, thou wast slain in thine high places. I am distressed for thee, my brother Jonathan: very pleasant hast thou been unto me: thy love to me was wonderful, passing the love of women!"

There are few characters in the Old Testament that stand before us in more life-like reality than that of Jonathan, few that so much attract our sympathy and love. We think of him less as the hero, attacking almost alone the Philistine garrison, or falling, covered with wounds, at the fatal battle of Gilboa, as the faithful friend, in close communion with one whom he loved as his own soul. We think of him going forth into the field at Ramah with his bow in his hand, to give warning to David, then lying concealed behind the stone Ezel; sadness on the prince's brow, stern sorrow in his spirit, but unchanging love in his heart. Touching is the account of that stolen interview between the prince and his persecuted friend, when they kissed one another, and wept one with another, till David exceeded.

In the love between David and Jonathan we see an exquisite picture of what friendship should be; and as Jonathan's constancy was put to a far sharper test than that of the man whom he loved, let us for our own instruction examine a little into the leading characteristics of the friendship of the prince of Israel. There are few amongst us so desolate or so cold-hearted as not to have friendship for at least one being upon earth; let us now try its strength and its nature by comparing it with the deep, disinterested attachment of Jonathan for one who was preferred before him, one who was to supersede him, the shepherd lad who was chosen to sit upon the throne to which the king's son seemed the natural heir.

In the first place, Jonathan's friendship had a "religious basis," the only one which can ensure stability. It was when David had appeared before Saul as a conqueror through faith, that the soul of Jonathan was knit with the soul of David. Theirs was peculiarly friendship "in the Lord." In the last solemn meeting which was ever to be theirs upon earth, when Jonathan by the wilderness of Ziph sought out David in the wood, he gave religious encouragement to his friend, he strengthened his hand in God.

Is not that friendship wanting in the noblest attribute of which the bonds only regard this brief state of being? Are we indeed friends to those with whom we never interchange thoughts on the highest subjects, those whom we have never made the slightest attempt to draw closer to the Lord? Affection is a most powerful lever; have we made use of it to elevate the character of those whom we love? Or do we flatter their foibles, foster their vanity, make their very affection towards us act as a clog to their souls? There are times when unselfish attachment is best seen in not only "strengthening, in the Lord," but tenderly rebuking.

"Who speaks not needed truth, lest he offend,
Hath spared himself, but sacrificed his friend."

Jonathan's friendship was perfectly "free from selfishness." Had there been in him the taint of ambition, covetousness, or envy, he would rather have been inclined, like his father, to hate than to love the young shepherd. Jonathan was of royal descent, the eldest son of a king; he must have been accustomed from youth to hear the voice of flattery, and to receive the homage of respect. Few readily part with dignity; but the son of Saul, without a murmur, apparently without a feeling of regret, yielded place to the son of Jesse.

And Jonathan was not only a prince but a hero; he had deservedly won both popularity and fame. David eclipsed him in both. In the song of the women of Israel— "Saul hath slain his thousands, and David his ten thousands," there seems not to have been even an allusion to the distinguished courage of Jonathan. How a proud heart would have chafed under such neglect! What drops of bitter jealousy would have poisoned the friendship of most men in the position of the prince! Can we see a friend of lowlier birth pass before us in the race of honour without an envious pang? Are we perfectly content to let his fame eclipse our own; and do we feel nothing but pleasure in listening to praises bestowed upon him? Then is our unselfish friendship worthy indeed of the name!

Jonathan's attachment to David was "firm under difficulties." The prince had duties to balance; he had to be submissive to the father who persecuted the friend. In a very remarkable manner Jonathan combined filial respect to Saul with fidelity to David. His mild but earnest, and for awhile successful, pleading with his father, his remaining with that guilty parent even after the tyrant had attempted his life, so that in death they were not divided, are beautiful traits in the prince. Saul was a persecutor—a murderer; his conduct must have wrung the heart of his pious son; but in life, as well as in death, that son seems to have kept near to his parent, without for one moment betraying the cause of his injured friend.

And, lastly, Jonathan's friendship was "tried in trouble." He was no summer-day lover, but a "brother born for adversity," who clung the more closely to David as the tempest raged the more fiercely around him. Jonathan's was love strong as death. If our hearts be warmed with friendship, is it holy, unselfish, generous, unchanging friendship such as his?

We are inclined, with David, to mourn over Jonathan, and feel that his fate was a hard one; that he suffered for sins not his own. But let us remember that the Lord reserves for those who love Him a far brighter crown than that which Jonathan was not permitted to wear, and that it was doubtless in mercy that he was called to close on Gilboa his brief but glorious career, so that he survived not to witness the ruin of his house. *

* It is interesting to observe that while the family of Saul may be compared to a blighted tree, the branch of Jonathan in later days bloomed into vigorous life. He left, as we know, but one little lame son; yet, centuries after Jonathan's death, we find his descendants numerous. The names of twenty-five of them are given in the Book of Chronicles, and of one of these it is written, "The sons of Ulam were mighty men of valour, archers, and had many sons and sons' sons, an hundred and fifty." It is very probable that the descendants of Jonathan may be living still upon earth. Is it quite impossible that Saul, the Apostle, the most illustrious of all the tribe of Benjamin, may have been descended from another Saul through the prince whom in his warm, self-denying affection he so mush resembled?

Jonathan's bow was as a type of himself. He was not as a weapon left to hang idle in a royal armoury, he was taken into the field of strife, he was bent in the hand of the Lord; but the hand that bent supported him still; his affections were strained like the tightened cord, but they were strengthened to bear the sore strain; and the bending and the straining were but to send the arrow of his hopes above an earthly sceptre or diadem, and fix them on higher joys, a crown that fadeth not away.

XXII.

IT has been beautifully observed, "In the Book of Psalms we have, if I may reverently say it, the very prayer-book of our divine Lord Himself; which He inspired, which He Himself made use of, and has bequeathed as His own book to the Church." We might also, speaking metaphorically, say,—The sacred harp on which David first played has never since been silent; as the breath of God's Spirit breathed through its chords, its music has been the joy and the comfort of the Church through all generations; its mysterious sound was heard even in the awful hours of the Crucifixion; * and never will it be silent, never will one golden string be broken, till all the redeemed of the Lord join in the chorus of Heaven.

Let us recall some of the various periods when the now familiar psalms of David first burst from his lips as he touched his harp. The son of Jesse probably acquired his skill on the instrument by practice, as he sat watching his sheep in the pastures by Bethlehem, when he was a beautiful ruddy-checked boy. David's fleecy charge may have been his only auditors when first the sweet strain arose which has since been echoed by millions of human hearts. "The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: He leadeth me beside the still waters."

But the first occasion on which we have certain knowledge of David's playing on his favourite instrument, is when his skill soothed the deep depression of the half-mad king. "David took an harp, and played with his hand: so Saul was refreshed, and was well, and the evil spirit departed from him." Gladly would we know what words were joined to the exquisite music which had such power to lighten deep gloom; perhaps no words were then heard, yet how often has a perturbed spirit been soothed by such breathings as these: "Why art thou cast down, O my soul? and why art thou disquieted within me? hope thou in God: for I shall yet praise Him, who is the health of my countenance, and my God."

David appears to have taken his harp with him into the gloomy recesses of Adullam, as the companion and solace of his flight; for this is the strain of his psalm "when he fled from Saul in the cave."

"Be merciful unto me, O God, be merciful unto me: for my soul trusteth in Thee: yea, in the shadow of Thy wings will I make my refuge, until these calamities be overpast . . . Awake up, my glory; awake, psaltery and harp: I myself will awake early."

Under very different circumstances did the monarch of Israel strike the sounding chords of his harp when the Ark of God was carried in triumph from Kirjathjearim: "And David and all Israel played before God with all their might and with singing, and with harps, and with psalteries, and with timbrels, and with cymbals, and with trumpets." Then indeed rose a sound of rejoicing. "The singers went before, and the minstrels followed after; in the midst were the damsels playing on the timbrels." According to David's own striking metaphor, he who had "lien among the pots" had become as "the wings of a dove, covered with silver, and her feathers with yellow gold;" and the harp of the king swelled the glorious chorus, "Let God arise, let His enemies be scattered: let them also that hate Him flee before Him!"

But dark shadows were to succeed the glorious sunshine. Happier was David as the fugitive in the cave than as the king in the palace. When the guilty but penitent psalmist bent over his harp, the tears of the stricken sinner, the bereaved father, may have fast dropped on its strings as he uttered the cry for pardon and grace:

"Have mercy upon me, O God, according to Thy lovingkindness: according to the multitude of Thy tender mercies blot out my transgressions!"

Could we be permitted to possess any visible relic of King David, and to choose what that relic might be, it would not be the crown of Rabbah, that was set on his head, the weight of which was a talent of gold; it would not be even the sword of Goliath, though with David we might say of that weapon, "there is none like that;" no, surely it would be the harp of the sweet singer of Israel that we would choose as the most precious relic of him whom God's Holy Spirit inspired. But were that harp visibly before us, would it not appear almost sacrilege to lay a hand on its strings; would the mightiest or most gifted of mortals presume to waken its chords? Far, far better for us to have its divine music preserved for us in the Scriptures, where the little child can make it sound, and yet be not guilty of presumption; where it is accessible to all—to the dying pauper on her sick-bed, as well as to the crowned queen or mitred archbishop. The ragged child's Psalter is truly more precious than the identical harp of King David would be.

And we have a key to the divine harmonies of the psalms which those who first stood listening around David did not possess. The blessed name of Jesus sounds to us thrilling through all the deepest chords of his music. If the Psalmist's strain be mournful, a Saviour's sufferings are its theme. "My God, my God, why hast Thou forsaken Me? . . . The assembly of the wicked have inclosed Me: they pierced My hands and My feet."

If it burst into a loud song of triumph, its keynote is still the name of our Lord. "Thy throne, O God, is for ever and ever: the sceptre of Thy kingdom is a right sceptre. Thou hast loved righteousness, and hated iniquity: wherefore God, Thy God, hath anointed Thee with the oil of gladness above Thy fellows."

It would be deeply interesting could we know how far King David himself understood the meaning of his own songs when, guided by the inspiring Spirit, he uttered dark sayings to the sound of his harp.

Let us not quit this subject without alluding to the fact that the harp is the only instrument which is mentioned in Revelation as adding to the music of Heaven. * The elders beheld by St. John around the throne of the Lamb had "every one of them harps," when "they sung a new song, saying, Thou art worthy to take the book, and to open the seals thereof: for Thou wast slain, and hast redeemed us to God by Thy blood out of every kindred, and tongue, and people, and nation; and hast made us unto our God kings and priests: and we shall reign on the earth."

* The trump of God, which shall awaken the dead, cannot be spoken of under such a term.

And again, recording his bright vision of the blessed above who bear God's name written on their foreheads, thus writes the beloved Apostle: "I heard a voice from Heaven, as the voice of many waters, and as the voice of a great thunder: and I heard the voice of harpers harping with their harps." There again, we believe, will the voice of the son of Jesse blend with the notes of a nobler instrument than that which he played upon earth; there may even we—the weak, the wayward, we whose lips have been so cold in praise and whose hearts in thanksgiving—lift up our voices with his!

"Lord, I believe Thou hast prepared,
   Unworthy though I be,
For me a blood-bought, dear reward—
   A golden harp for me.
'Tis strung and tuned for endless years,
   And formed by grace divine,
To sound in God the Father's ears
   No other name than Thine!"

XXIII.

IT is not without a cause that a record is preserved in those Scriptures "which are written for our learning," of the magnificent growth of Absalom's hair, which, like a golden harvest, was cut by him every year, and weighed, in the pride of his heart. It is remarkable that this very hair, this mass of rich beauty, was, through God's judgment, the instrument of Absalom's destruction.

When the prince fled on his mule before the troops of his injured father, as Absalom was passing beneath a thick oak, the branches caught his head, and suspended him between the heaven and the earth, while his mule passed on through the wood; and there in agony and terror hung the miserable sinner, unable to release himself from the fetters of his own luxuriant hair, till death came in the form of a merciless kinsman, and three darts were thrust by Joab through the heart of Absalom as he was yet alive in the midst of the oak.

There is no one in Scripture whose mortal beauty, is more vividly described than Absalom's. "In all Israel there was none to be so much praised as Absalom for his beauty: from the sole of his foot even to the crown of his head there was no blemish in him." And there are few whose characters are represented to us as so loathsome and black with sin. This suggests a natural inquiry, Was the extraordinary beauty of Absalom in any way a snare to his soul; was it a bane to him throughout his life, as well as the immediate cause of his death?

In a certain subordinate degree, perhaps, we may find that it was so. Absalom's great personal attractions probably increased the weak, doating partiality of David for his unworthy son, while they made it more easy for the prince to attain the object of his guilty ambition—"he stole the hearts of Israel."

Should we then represent beauty as a thing to be despised? Far from it. Beauty is the stamp which God hath set upon the wondrous works of His creation; deformity only entered this world with sin, and in the realms where sin is unknown, all will again be perfect beauty. Personal charms, like rank or wealth, are a talent, for they undoubtedly bestow influence; and a blessed thing is influence used for God. There is no fairer sight than that of youth and loveliness united with "the beauty of holiness," and devoted to the service of Christ.

The subject naturally opens out into that of personal appearance in general, and a little reflection upon it may not be unprofitable to those who possess few attractions, as well as those gifted with many. To appear well is a common wish, confined to neither sex, nor to any station or age. As beauty has its advantages and responsibilities, let us consider for a brief space, with Absalom's rich locks before us, what are some of the temptations to which it exposes its possessor. They seem to be chiefly these—love of dress, love of the world, love of admiration.

The first of these, "love of dress," may seem to be a folly better attacked by playful satire than by serious rebuke. It is not very often noticed from the pulpit, though it can be very little pleasure to an earnest-minded pastor to see the pews like a tulip-bed before him, where, instead of being dressed with modesty and "shamefacedness," Christian women seem to study how to evade the command to wear a covering on their heads in the house of prayer, by making that covering as slight and as fantastic as may be. Even painting the skin is not unknown amongst the women of England, though she of whom it is recorded that "she painted her face and tired her head," is assuredly one of the last whom our matrons or maidens would wish to resemble. A bold style of dress is so utterly repugnant to all our ideas of Christian devotion, that we can hardly even imagine it to have been ever worn by the holy women who ministered to our Lord.

The sums of money lavished on dress (nor is the reproach confined to the weaker sex) is also a disgrace to Christian profession in a land where poverty abounds. I have heard that a lady (I am glad to say not British) boasted that she spent a thousand a year on dress. She would hardly have uttered that boast had she realized that upon her at that moment was resting the eye of Him who said to the rich young ruler, "Sell that thou hast, and give to the poor, and thou shalt have treasure in heaven."

It is, indeed, impossible to fix a rule as to how much it is lawful to spend upon dress, as the amount must necessarily vary according to means and station in life; it would be well, however, to determine never to spend money on any mere ornament of the person, without giving at least an equal sum to purchase plain articles of clothing for the poor, to be bestowed "personally." Were this simple plan adopted, one may safely aver that the flannel and serge would be found to bring far more pleasure than the jewel, the lace, or the plume; and luxuries would be gradually relinquished, and that with no feeling of regret, for the richer luxury of clothing the shivering forms of the poor.

"Love of the world" is another evil to which those are peculiarly exposed whose attractions dispose the world to love them. To them there is an added gloss to pleasure; scenes of amusement are brightened by the ready welcome which they ever receive there. The ornaments of society need even more than others to watch and pray lest they enter into temptation, and to seek that grace which alone can keep them "unspotted from the world."

For the "love of admiration" is in many minds not unlike the feverish craving for intoxicating liquor which possesses the habitual drunkard. Eager is the longing for the sweet poison of flattery, the excitement caused by a sense of power over human hearts. And this leads to very serious evil. I am not referring only to the dark descent to actual vice, to which, in thousands of cases, the love of admiration has led; but would earnestly protest against that common effect of it which makes trifling with the happiness of others the favourite amusement of the vain of both sexes, under the name of flirting. One who would not willingly set foot on a worm will often feel actual pleasure in inflicting the keenest pangs. Selfish vanity must be gratified at any cost to others, ungenerous as it is to desire to engross affection which cannot be returned. The man who prides himself on being a "lady-killer," or the beauty who complacently counts up the number of her "conquests," is making an unworthy and sinful use of the endowments of nature. I might quote to such the homely advice of the great Marquis of Montrose,—

"Let no one to more love pretend
Than he has hearts in store;
True love begun should never end—
Love one, and love no more."

But I would rather take higher ground. This pride of beauty, this selfishness of vanity, is "utterly inconsistent" with a Christian character; it is incompatible with the adoption of that spirit of Christ without which we "are none of His." God's people are called to glorify Him in their bodies as well as their souls; and where the beauty which He has bestowed becomes a cause of vanity, selfishness, and folly, its possessor may one day have reason to regret not having been a cretin or a dwarf.

There are two special antidotes to the spiritual poison which is constantly offered to those in whom the world delights. The first is a realization of the transitory nature of that beauty which passes away like a flower; the second is meditation on that beauty which will abide for ever. One great poet has, as it were, written the first on a skull; he preaches his sermon in the churchyard. But it is more pleasant, and at least as profitable, to turn our thoughts from the dust "sown in dishonour" to what it shall be when "raised in glory." We cannot but think that outward beauty will then correspond with that which before was inward; that they who have borne most of the Saviour's image in their hearts will bear most of that image visibly when we shall be like Him, for we shall see Him as He is.

Oh, what marvellous changes will appear on the day of the resurrection! The wrinkled face, the decrepit form, the blemish, and the deformity, will then, in God's saints, be exchanged for the brilliancy of immortal beauty, beyond what thought can conceive! But how then will an Absalom appear? Let Nature's favoured ones turn from the looking-glass to God's Word, and test by that mirror of truth both what they are and what they are likely to be; whether their goodliness be but as "the flower of grass which passeth away," or be the faint, dim type of that beauty with which God will clothe His redeemed, who, though now in the world, and perhaps admired and sought after there, are yet (like their Master) "not of the world," nor look for their happiness in its vain pleasures or empty applause.

XXIV.

TWICE is the aged Barzillai brought before us in Scripture. On the first occasion, when David, fleeing from his unnatural son, had with his faithful followers crossed over Jordan, the Gileadite, himself too old to join in the approaching conflict, brought valuable help to those who were to bear the burden and heat of the day.

Let us notice the minuteness with which every article of the old man's gift is noted down in the Word of God, not even the homeliest omitted. "Barzillai the Gileadite of Rogelim brought beds, and basons, and earthen vessels, and wheat, and barley, and flour, and parched corn, and beans, and lentiles, and parched pulse, and honey, and butter, and sheep, and cheese of kine, for David, and for the people that were with him, to eat: for they said, The people is hungry, and weary, and thirsty, in the wilderness." Considerate kindness was shown; the mind of the old man had revolved what would be most needed, and therefore most welcome; his was a freewill offering, a timely offering, gladly accepted, and afterwards royally requited.

Again old Barzillai comes before us in Scripture, but not this time as bringing aid to a fugitive, but as welcoming a king at the head of victorious forces. David was returning to reign when the venerable Gileadite went over Jordan with the king. Then were the old man's loyal services acknowledged and richly rewarded; his was the kiss, and the blessing, and the promise, "Whatsoever thou shalt require of me, that will I do for thee." That was a day of honour and of rejoicing to the faithful Barzillai when his royal master returned in peace to his own.

A few thoughts are suggested to the mind by the parallel between the position of David's followers in their time of need, and that of Christ's soldiers now struggling in warfare against the powers of evil, especially as regards missionaries in heathen lands. This is a time when many of the followers of our heavenly King are called, as it were, into the wilderness. The missionary quits home and country, and goes forth to do battle with idolatry in the dark places of the earth. We read of the brave devotion of Ittai, who, when David would have dismissed him from sharing his perils, exclaimed, "As the Lord liveth, and as my lord the king liveth, in what place my lord the king shall be, whether in death or life, there will thy servant be!" and we feel that such is the spirit which should animate the Christian missionary. But we need our Barzillais also, to strengthen the hands of those whose perils and hardships they are unable to share.

"What have I done to aid the missionary cause?" is a question which each should solemnly ask his conscience. We rest in our comfortable homes, on our tables are the honey and the butter, in our barns the barley and the wheat. Have our offerings to our King, in the persons of His servants, been proportioned to the means bestowed upon us by the rich bounty of God?

How much lies in that word "proportioned!" The widow with her two mites gave, we know, more than all the rich who cast into the treasury. What proportion does what we bestow on the cause of missions bear to what we spend on our pleasures? Are there not many who would be startled by the idea of its being their duty to subscribe to missions a sum equal to what they would, without a scruple, lavish on a single entertainment, a picture, or an article of plate?

The question of "systematic beneficence" rises before us. Some urge on us the duty of devoting a tenth of all that we possess to the Lord; others would have us not mete out our charity thus, but would bid us give as we have the power, whenever our help is required. It seems that the adoption of either mode of giving should greatly depend on the character of the individual, and that we should study our own dispositions, to know which we should make our own. There are some Christians whose zeal is so warm, whose hearts so liberal, that the idea of fixing upon any proportion as a rule would only chill and cramp their charity. When St. Paul was delighting to spend and to be spent, who would have suggested to him that he should lay aside a "tenth" of his earnings for God! We do not measure out the waters of the overflowing river that pours its rich treasures through the land; we should but mar its beauty by attempting to curb its windings and bring it to a uniform width. Let it contract here, or expand there; it is ever flowing onward, a type of the "cheerful giver," whom God loveth.

But the bounty of many—perhaps of most men—is not so full or so free. If we have not the river, let us dig the canal,—that is, adopt the rule of systematic beneficence, mete out boundaries and fix embankments, not to prevent the waters of charity from overflowing, but to prevent their being encroached upon by the sand of selfishness, the mud of worldliness. Thus has God walled in His Sabbaths, not to confine devotion to one in seven, but (amongst other reasons) to insure a given space for its exercise, from which earthly concerns should be carefully excluded.

The Christian makes his business arrangements as if the week held but six days, and inconveniences are thus avoided which would otherwise often arise. If he were in like manner to count but nine-tenths of his income as his own, and systematically consider the remaining portion as not his, but God's, he would, in most cases, no more miss the tenth of his earnings than he now does the seventh of his days, and the consecrated gold, like the consecrated Sabbath, would, with God's blessing upon it, yield a rich harvest through ages eternal.

The ease with which systematic beneficence enables us to give, is not the only advantage accruing from it. It necessitates an increase in charity proportioned to increase in our wealth. This is a point too much neglected. It might appear that a man whose income is doubled would naturally also double the amount of his alms; that he who had a thousand a year would give much more largely upon its being increased to two. But it is to be feared that this is seldom "practically" the case. Wants expand in more than equal ratio to the means of satisfying them. The larger residence, the increased establishment, the better style of entertaining, place the richer man still in the position of living quite up to his income; the "stereotyped guinea" in the missionary report has not at the end of the year become two, though systematic beneficence might have raised it to a hundred without any sensible difficulty. The channel of the canal was not deepened and widened "at once," and the new supplies are sunk and lost in daily household expenditure, or evaporate in ostentation.

The Jews were commanded to devote a tenth of their property to God; and it seems clear that a Christian cannot be required to do "less" than a Jews who knew not, as we do, the "grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, who, though He was rich, yet for our sakes He became poor, that we through His poverty might be rich." There are many persons, indeed, who cannot maintain even their independence without a painful struggle; to speak of systematic beneficence to such, would appear but mockery; "faith" must be their wealth, their offerings their "prayers;" but we have our Barzillais amongst us, who, having enough and to spare, are bound by every consideration of gratitude and duty to give freely—liberally—joyfully.

The time is coming when our King will return in triumph to His own. Then will the Shimeis who rejected Him and despised His cause fall down in terror before Him; and the wondering Barzillais find that their gifts of love, even to the "lentiles and parched pulse and honey," nay, even to the "cup of cold water" given for the sake of their King, have all been registered, and will be a thousand-fold requited by Him. Then will the deep adoring gratitude of the redeemed far exceed that expressed in the words of the Gileadite: "Why should the king recompense me with such a reward!"

XXV.

IN the porch of King Solomon's magnificent temple stood two mighty pillars of brass, nearly thirty feet in height: to the one he gave the name Jachin, "He shall establish;" to the other Boaz, "strength." Thus would the royal preacher seem to teach all generations that to the house of prayer we should come to be firmly established in sound doctrine, and to receive strength to stand fast in the faith.

But we are not only told of the size and material of those stately columns, but of their ornaments also: "The chapiters that were upon the top of the pillars were of lily work in the porch." Such details were not deemed too insignificant to find a place in the Word of God. Now, the question of the amount of ornament to be desired in a church is not one into which I desire to enter, believing that where a devout congregation worship God in spirit and in truth, it is of minor importance whether the edifice in which they meet be fair as Solomon's temple, or plain as the "upper room" in which the disciples assembled. Let us rather consider the beautiful lily work on the pillars as a type of that which is lovely crowning that which is lofty; the spirit of kindly sympathy towards our fellow-worshippers forming a complement and addition to exalted devotion towards God.

Were we to ask the use of churches, we might receive the reply, "They are buildings set apart for prayer, praise, and preaching, and the celebration of the sacraments ordained by our Lord." This might be a correct, but it would not be a complete answer, unless it conveyed the idea of social worship, brethren meeting as brethren in the house of their Father, lovingly uniting their hearts and voices, as they hope to do in their home above. Much is it to be regretted that there is so little of this spirit of religious sympathy; that we have, as it were, the pillars of brass without the lily work round them. There is often a chilling formality in places of worship, that makes us painfully feel that the world has brought its distinctions and its vanities even into the house of prayer. We see, perhaps, the large pew with its solitary occupant, while weary women are standing in the aisle; it is the piece of silver that admits to the seat, and those who are unable to bribe are treated as strangers, almost as intruders, in the place where, beyond all others, they should find themselves welcome. Is it not constantly the man "in goodly apparel," the woman "in gay clothing," to whom it is virtually said, "Sit thou here in a good place;" while the poor must obey the implied though unuttered command, "Stand thou there, or sit here under my footstool?"

"Hospitality in church" is not a subject likely to be treated of in either religious or moral essay; the very name might provoke a smile; but I had once a practical sermon preached to me on the subject, which sank deeper into my memory than almost any sermon which I ever heard, which makes me venture to mention the trivial incident.

Many years since, I entered as a stranger a church in Brighton. The preacher was a very popular one, and I knew that I might have difficulty in obtaining a seat, so I took the first which I saw vacant; it was a free seat, close to a wall. I soon found that my position was a very undesirable one as regarded comfort; a large air-hole was directly in front, probably intended to warm the church with hot air, but that which rose up, almost under my feet, was the chilling breath of November.

I merely state the circumstance to introduce mention of the conduct of two ladies, perfect strangers to me, between whom I chanced to be seated. The one on my left hand surprised me by offering to change places with me: as there was no reason why she should be exposed to the chilling draught rather than myself, I of course declined her offer. I know not whether the lady on my right was related to the other, but she was at least her sister in kindness; for she lent to me, an utter stranger, her handsome fur tippet to place over my knees, to protect me from cold.

"A very trivial incident indeed," may be said; but when I consider its effect upon my own mind, I cannot look upon it as so trivial: often and often has the example of those ladies recurred to me in church. I heard an eloquent sermon on that November day in Brighton; but I derived at least as much benefit from the conduct of two of the congregation. I asked myself why they should be so kind to me, a stranger, and concluded that they were not of those who merely attend church to keep up a cold, heartless form of devotion, but that they had felt the "genial" influence of Christianity while uniting in social prayer. With them the pillars of brass lacked not the lily work on the chapiter.

Church is a place that often affords opportunity for the exercise of the little courtesies of life. The proffered scat, the church-book lent, the place in the hymn-book found for the deaf, the guiding hand held out to the blind,—these are trifling things in themselves, but they warm the heart of strangers, and make devotion itself more earnest by contact with Christian kindness. In church, selfishness and pride are peculiarly repulsive; we should feel the connecting link which binds together those who are one in Christ; we should see that our religion is one of humility and love. Solomon's noble pillars would have looked cold and hard but for the graceful lily work which crowned them; it might not, indeed, add to their strength, but it greatly enhanced their beauty.

XXVI.

WHO, on first glancing at this homely piece of earthen-ware, an oil-cruse, with nothing to distinguish it from thousands used in the dwellings of the poor, would connect it with a miracle? Yet day after day, for the space of years, was it mysteriously supplied, while the prophet Elijah, the widow and her son, were fed on the store never failing.

We know not whether the oil within multiplied itself like the bread in the hands of the Lord's disciples, or whether an angel, pleased to be employed on such a mission of mercy, each night replenished an empty cruse. How the miracle was wrought matters not to us; the widow who had obeyed the word of the man of God, who had been willing to share her little with him, found that little increased to an inexhaustible supply.

What hallowed meals must have been those partaken of in the cottage at Sarepta, where Elijah was the guest, and where every morsel of the food on the board was a pledge of the peculiar favour of God!

The widow of Sarepta was evidently a woman of faith, and we believe that her grace was renewed day by day, like the oil in her cruse. Yet it is not impossible that her faith, like that of the Israelites when they were fed by manna from Heaven, like our own amid a thousand proofs of the watchful providence of God, may have known times of wavering and weakness. The widow would but have resembled others, if at some time she had looked with anxious fear even at this cruse so constantly supplied, and had thought, "How small it is, how unable to contain more than enough for the wants of a day! It is true that I have never yet found it empty, but what if it should fail at last! The heavens are still like brass, and the earth like iron; no rain has fallen—or is likely to fall; others wealthier far than me are perishing around me! If this oil and meal should fail, whither could I turn, to whom could I go? I should see my only son wasting with hunger before my eyes! Oh, how fearful would be the fate before us if the oil in this cruse should fail!"

We can at once see the unbelief, ingratitude, and folly of such fears, if ever the widow entertained them; but are not such fears common guests within our own bosoms? What had the widow's hopes to rest on? "Experience" and a "promise." And have not we the same? Have we not experienced that God can and will help us; that He has brought us through past troubles; that He has known how to fill the cruse in time of need, though He may not cause it to overflow, nor give more than sufficient for the wants of the day? And have we not His promise, "Seek ye first the kingdom of God, and all these things shall be added to you. Take no thought for the morrow: for the morrow shall take care for the things of itself?"

We are slow to trust God's providence and love. We would have visible stores laid up for the future; we are not content with the cruse. While we torture ourselves with the thought, "What if at last it should fail?" We need the Saviour's reproof, "Ye of little faith, wherefore did ye doubt?"

"Give us this day our daily bread." There is a lesson conveyed in these words of the prayer put by our Lord Himself into the mouths of His servants. We ask—not for luxuries—but "bread;" we ask not for stores, but for "this day's" supply. It is more difficult for us, in our artificial state of society, to exercise the simplicity of faith as expressed in this prayer, than it was for the first disciples. We multiply our wants, and are discouraged if they be not abundantly supplied. It is no common attainment to be able from the heart to say with the apostle, "I have learned, in whatsoever state I am, therewith to be content."

It is not only for the supply of our earthly need that we should look with calm trust to God. There are those who have never known what it is to want anything that money can buy, who yet require to reflect on the widow's cruse in order to strengthen their faith. We are oppressed with fears for the future: "If that trouble come upon me, how shall I meet it? If that sorrow be sent, how shall I bear it? Will not grace fail under such a temptation?"

"Why art thou cast down, O my soul? and why art thou disquieted within me? hope thou in God: far I shall yet praise Him."

Hath He not said, "As thy days, so shall thy strength be?" May we not "come to Him boldly, for grace to help in time of need"? We are indeed but weak and frail, earthly vessels that have held but little; but the blessing of God, if vouchsafed to us, will make us even as the cruse at Sarepta—grace will secretly be supplied, by means of which the world knows nothing.

And let us remember that the famine time will not last for ever; the day draws near when there will be a sound of an abundance of rain. "Drop down, ye heavens, from above, and let the skies pour down righteousness: let the earth open, and let them bring forth salvation, and let righteousness spring up together; I the Lord have created it." Grace and peace will not then be meted out, as it were, drop by drop, but flow as the river, and as the waves of the sea; the supply in the cruse will be exchanged for measureless joy, the handful of meal for the banquet prepared in the mansions of bliss!

XXVII.

OVER this letter a strange mystery hangs, such as is attached to no other writing of man. This is a letter to King Jehoram, a letter of stern rebuke, of terrible denunciation: it stands as a death-warrant issued by the Almighty on the idolater, the oppressor, the murderer, whose hands were stained with the blood of his six brethren, the sons of the noble Jehoshaphat.

But by whom was this letter written? The Bible informs us by Elijah; but—before Jehoram had ascended the throne, or had committed his fearful crime, Elijah the prophet had gone up to Heaven in a chariot of fire! Hence arises a difficulty which has perplexed the minds of the learned, and which has given rise to various conjectures. Some have imagined that for Elijah we should read Elisha; but, as has been forcibly remarked, "we have no evidence whatever that any mistake has been made by the copyists, but all the evidence lies on the other side. The Septuagint version, which was very early made, and very widely spread, has it Elias—that is, according to Greek, 'Elijah'; and not Elisha, which latter word in Greek is 'Eliseus'. Again, the Jewish historian Josephus, referring to this event, has expressly the word Elijah."

Krümmacher appears to hold that the mysterious writing actually came from the world of spirits; that that hand which had never known corruption had traced the letters denouncing judgment upon a most wicked king. There is a third conjecture, which seems to bear with it much of probability; that the prophet, foreknowing both the crimes of Jehoram and their punishment, wrote the letter before his ascension, and left it to be delivered in the ripeness of time. If either of these latter conjectures point to the actual fact, what a solemn interest attaches to this message from the departed, the letter to a monarch of earth from one who dwelt upon earth no more!

It is interesting to reflect on the power and influence which writings may possess after the death of the writer, nay, in consequence of his death. A parent's letter, received after his departure from this state of being, may penetrate a heart that was closed against all the warnings of that parent when alive. We set an especial value upon "last" messages, "last" words; they are like proofs of an engraving made more precious from the plate being broken.

An instance is given by the traveller Palgrave of a writing left as a legacy, in itself so beautiful, and written under circumstances so interesting, that I cannot forbear transcribing the greater part of it. The reader will, I trust, forgive what may appear as a digression.

Palgrave received the following account, on the occasion of his visit to Moharreb, an island on the eastern coast of Arabia, from a learned Arab named Mogheeth, who was scarcely able to finish his recital from the emotion which it caused him.

The famous Ahmed el Ghazalee, native of Toos in Persia, a poet who lived in the twelfth century, said one day to his disciples, "Go and bring me new and white garments, for the King hath summoned me to his presence."

They obeyed, and on their return they found their master lifeless. By the side of the corpse lay a paper, on which were inscribed the following lines. It is impossible not to be struck with the spirit breathing through the poetry, which appears not to be Mohammedan, but Christian. Some of the ideas seem actually to be gleaned from the writings of the apostles; there is St. Paul's sublime view of death, St. John's lofty revelation of God as love, though there is no allusion to the great doctrine of justification by faith. As the religion of Christ prevailed in early ages in the islands of the Persian Gulf, we cannot but think that it left traces behind, as the "garden flower grows wild" where it once was carefully cultivated, springing up in congenial soil, though no longer tended by man. These are the lines by which the dead Ahmed el Ghazalee spake, as if from the realm of spirits:

"Tell my friends who behold me dead,
Weeping and mourning my loss awhile,
Think not this corpse before you myself;
That corpse is mine, but it is not I.
I am undying life, and this is but my body,
Many years my house, and my garment of change.
I am a bird, and this body was my cage;
I have winged my flight elsewhere, and left it for a token.
I am a pearl, and this my shell
Broken open and abandoned to worthlessness.
I am a treasure; this was a spell
Thrown over me, till the treasure was released in truth.
Thanks be to God who has delivered me,
And has assigned me a lasting abode in the highest.
There am I now the day conversing with the happy,
And beholding face to face unveiled Deity;
Contemplating the Mirror wherein I see and read
Past and present, and whatever remains to be."

* * * *

"I have journeyed on, and left you behind;
How could I make an abode of your halting-place?
Ruin then my house, and break my cage in pieces,
And let the shell go perish with kindred illusions;
Tear my garment, the veil once thrown over me,
Then bury all these, and leave them alike forgotten.

"Deem not death—death, for it is in truth
Life of lives, and goal of all our longings.
Think lovingly of a God whose name is Love,
Who joys in rewarding, and come on secure of fear:
Whence I am I behold you, undying spirits like myself,
And see that our lot is one, and you as I."

XXVIII.

WE look on a dry and withered thing, killed by the worm, shrivelled by the heat. Not so appeared the plant when its broad leaves, full of life and beauty, afforded a cool green shade to the prophet Jonah. The gourd formed a kind of bower, under the shadow of which the weary could rest, and was thus a beautiful emblem of that charity which "covereth a multitude of sins."

It was a worm at the root which destroyed it; and when we read in the sacred story how, with Jonah himself, charity was so dried up and withered that God's mercy to thousands could afford him pain instead of joy, we naturally ask,—What was the worm at the root with him? If we search a little under the surface, we shall find that the worm was "pride;" and that, not only with Jonah, but too often with ourselves, hidden pride eats the life out of charity, and leaves but a dry, sapless skeleton, worthless in the sight of God and His angels.

There is something to admire, but little to love, in Jonah, as his portrait stands in the gallery of Scripture, drawn by his own vigorous hand. We admire the straightforward truthfulness of the man who softens not one harsh feature, but represents his own defects with unsparing fidelity. We admire Jonah's calm courage when he bade the mariners fling him into the raging billows, and save their own lives by sacrificing his. We admire the faith which sustained him, and made him look towards God, even When the depth closed him round about, and the weeds were wrapped about his head.

But we shrink from the severity of character which marked this prophet, who could contemplate the destruction of a large heathen city with stern satisfaction, and betray irritation because the mercy of God far exceeded his own. We imagine that, if Jonah had lived in these days, though he would have been a man of spotless integrity and unblemished life, he would probably have appeared as a severe master, or a hard landlord, far more just than merciful; that little ones, who "cannot discern between their right hand and their left," would not have clung to his neck, or smiled up into his face, reading there—as children intuitively do —the impression left there by a spirit of kindliness.

We contrast the character of Jonah with that of St. Paul; the hardness of the prophet with the intense desire of the apostle that sinners might be spared, and his readiness to spend and be spent for others: "To the weak became I as weak, that I might gain the weak. I am made all things to all men, that I might by all means save some." Paul's charity, like the gourd of miraculous growth, spread its glorious branches far and wide; nor did opposition, cruelty, or ingratitude, destroy its vigour or wither its leaf.

Perhaps the chief cause of St. Paul's tender indulgence and yearning sympathy towards sinners, is to be found in his deep sense of personal sin. When he was a proud, self-righteous Pharisee, we find in him no trace of mercy towards those who differed from him in religious opinions. We have no reason to suppose that the perishing state of the Gentile world ever then cost him a sigh. Saul might have seen a Nineveh destroyed with as much cold indifference as Jonah himself would have done. But he who deemed himself the least of saints and the chief of sinners, loved much, because he had been forgiven much; he delighted in dwelling on the free grace which had saved his own perishing soul; he felt that that grace alone had made him to differ from others, and his heart's desire was that Jew and Gentile should participate in the blessing.

Now, this deep sense of sin does not appear in Jonah. He confessed, indeed, to the sailors, that the storm was a judgment upon his flight from duty; but we discover in him none of the lowly humiliation on account of sin which marked a David, a Peter, or even a righteous Job. Perhaps the very nature of his punishment rather fostered the pride than abased the spirit of the prophet. The elements were moved on his account; his transgression had raised a storm—his generous sacrifice quelled it. God wrought a special miracle for his preservation from death. Then, scarcely had Jonah declared the Almighty's message to Nineveh, than the whole mighty city repented in dust and ashes. When did the voice of preacher ever command more sudden, more marvellous success? Truly, Jonah was set on a very high pinnacle indeed! He was reverenced by monarch and people as the inspired oracle of God. We cannot marvel that pride was fostered in the heart of Jonah; and are less surprised that it had such an effect upon his charity—that, to maintain his lofty position as a prophet, he would have been content that the judgments which he had threatened should all be terribly fulfilled.

How gently did God, in His love and wisdom, deal with the haughty Jonah! He who had seemed to grasp the thunderbolt was taught that he was but man—but a weak, sinful man. The bodily frame, once miraculously preserved, was shown to be subject to pain and fatigue, even like those of others; the mere force of the wind, the mere heat of the sun, were sufficient to exhaust its strength. Jonah was ready to faint. The soul that had been so lofty and firm in the prospect of instant death, was prostrated and brought to despair by the withering of a gourd!

Where was his courage—where his power of endurance? Jonah, under a common form of trial, shows, not the dignity of a prophet, but the impatient querulousness of a child. It must have been with shame that he afterwards recorded the almost impious complaints which bodily discomfort drew from his lips.

The story is abruptly ended. Jonah tells not the effect on his own mind of the gentle rebuke of the Lord; but we may trust that it caused him to bow down in shame, and search for the worm at the root, and learn to extend to others that mercy which he found that he so greatly needed himself.

What are our feelings towards "them that are without," those whom we deem grievous sinners, like the men of Nineveh? Is there a cold, self-righteous complacency, in the thought that we are not as they are-something of satisfaction in the belief, that, though they may revel in prosperity now, judgment will ere long overtake them? When the tower of Siloam falls, are we eager to show that those crushed beneath it were sinners above all that dwell at Jerusalem?

Let us beware of a censorious spirit, ready to judge and to condemn. If we see the leaf of our charity shrivelling, let us search for the worm at the root. Many a sorrow and many a fall may God permit His servants to suffer, in order to humble and to prove them, and to teach them, as He taught Jonah, that they are but dust. The most exalted saints have nothing wherein to glory but the Cross of Christ; through which alone they, as well as the lowest and worst of transgressors, can be delivered from the righteous judgments of God.

XXIX.

WE bless the Lord for our creation, preservation, and all the blessings of this life; but how strange are some of the things which the white-robed saints on high will number amongst these blessings! There may be heard a Nebuchadnezzar praising for the blessing of madness; a pardoned thief for the torments of a cross; and a Manasseh, remembering, in a song of loud thanksgiving, those Babylonish fetters of which the iron entered into his soul!

Manasseh, King of Judah, had perhaps descended into lower depths of depravity than any other sinner of whose conversion we read in the Bible. He might have been thought beyond reach even of the mercy of God, so deep had he sunk in the pit of iniquity. Dr. Kitto thus sums up the list of the transgressions of this most wicked man: "The crimes of all former kings seem light in comparison with those which disgraced his reign. He upheld idolatry with all the influence of the regal power, and with such inconceivable boldness, that the pure and holy ceremonies of the temple were superseded by rites of an idol image, set up in the very sanctuary . . . The practice which was, of all others, the most abhorrent to Jehovah, the king sanctioned by his own atrocious example, for he devoted his own children by fire to strange gods, in the blood-stained valley of Ben Hinnom. Wickedness reigned on high, and, as usual, persecuted righteousness and truth; so that, by a strong but significant hyperbole, we are told that innocent blood flowed in the streets of Jerusalem." It is said that the prophet Isaiah was martyred by the command of Manasseh, and underwent a terrible death, by being sawn asunder!

"God spoke unto Manasseh, and to his people, but they would not hearken." Who could have marvelled, then, if the sentence had gone forth, "Manasseh is joined to idols—let him alone?" "He that, being often reproved, hardeneth his neck, shall suddenly be destroyed, and that without remedy."

But Manasseh, son of Hezekiah, had doubtless been the child of many prayers, and the Spirit of his heavenly Father yearned still over this worse than prodigal son. God sent other messengers, to whom Manasseh could not choose but hearken. The Lord brought on him "the captains of the King of Assyria, which took Manasseh among the thorns, and bound him with fetters, and carried him to Babylon." Those chains were as the cords of love, with which mercy would draw the wretched sinner back from the gulf of destruction into which he was plunging.

"When he was in affliction, he besought the Lord his God, and humbled himself greatly before the God of his fathers." The prayer attributed to Manasseh, though not contained in the inspired record, nor perhaps written by Manasseh himself, well expresses what must have been the feeling of his broken and contrite heart. "I have sinned above the number of the sands of the sea. My transgressions, O Lord, are multiplied, my transgressions are multiplied, and I am not worthy to behold and see the height of heaven, for the multitude of my iniquities. I am bowed down with many iron bands, that I cannot lift up my head, neither have any release; for I have provoked Thy wrath, and done evil before Thee. I did not Thy will, neither kept I Thy commandments. I have set up abominations, and have multiplied offences. Now, therefore, I bow the knee of my heart, beseeching Thee of grace. I have sinned, O Lord, I have sinned, and I acknowledge my iniquities. Wherefore, I humbly beseech Thee, forgive me, O Lord, forgive me, and destroy me not with mine iniquities . . . For Thou art the God, even the God of them that repent; and in me Thou wilt show all Thy goodness, for Thou wilt save me, that am unworthy, according to Thy great mercy."

"The blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth from all sin." The history of Manasseh is a most striking comment upon such a text as this. If "he" was saved, who need despair? If "he" was granted true repentance, what heart so dead in sin that it cannot be quickened by the Spirit of Life!

When God released the prisoner from captivity, and brought him again to Jerusalem to reign on the throne of his fathers, Manasseh proved the sincerity of his contrition by the change in his life. "He took away the strange gods, and the idol out of the house of the Lord, and all the altars that he had built, and cast them out of the city. And he repaired the altar of the Lord, and sacrificed thereon peace-offerings and thank-offerings, and commanded Judah to serve the Lord God of Israel."

We believe that amongst the ransomed of Christ, Manasseh will at the last day be found with the pious Hezekiah his father, and the holy prophet Isaiah, whose inspired words were so touchingly fulfilled in the case of his own cruel murderer. "Though your sins be as scarlet they shall be white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool."

The history of Manasseh is fraught with hope and comfort, not only for those bowed down under the weight of manifold sins, but for parents enduring that anguish which is only second to that of remorse, grief for the wickedness of a child. Hezekiah was a man of prayer; he had, we doubt not, often fervently prayed for his boy, and long after his own decease his prayers were abundantly answered. The supplications of Hezekiah may have helped to forge these fetters for Manasseh, they may have helped to draw the Assyrians upon him.

Let us close our meditations upon this most striking history of God's abounding grace, in the words of one who was himself a miracle of pardoning love,—"Godly sorrow worketh repentance not to be repented of. The wages of sin is death; but the gift of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord."

XXX.

A LIFE of bitter trial was that of Jeremiah, the messenger of wrath and of woe, the prophet who announced evil tidings of disgrace and ruin to a profligate court and a wicked people. Jeremiah stood like a light-house on a desolate rock, exposed to the fury of the blast of calumny, the fierce billows of persecution. What would be the position of a seer, even in these days, who should announce the utter devastation of our land by famine and sword, who should declare amongst us that we should become "an execration and an astonishment, a curse and a reproach," who should pronounce a sentence of death upon monarch and noble, bid our soldiers sheath their swords, and our volunteers submit to a foreign foe without so much as a struggle? Jeremiah has recorded his own sufferings in language which shows how deeply he felt them. "I am the man that hath seen affliction. He hath made me desolate. I was a derision to all my people, and their song all the day."

Nor were hatred and mockery all that the prophet had to endure. His liberty was taken away; his life was in imminent peril;—it is said that he fell at last a victim to his countrymen's hatred. When we consider also that the ruin of his nation was the source of deep affliction to one who was a patriot as well as a prophet, that—like the blessed Saviour—Jeremiah wept over Jerusalem while he foretold her destruction, we shall conclude that amongst God's saints few drank more deeply of the cup of sorrow and will scarcely wonder that in his anguish Jeremiah cursed the day of his birth.

But the deed of purchase which we are now contemplating reminds us of an occasion when a gleam of joy may have shone on the darkened path of the prophet, a drop of sweetness have been mixed in his cup. The whole transaction connected with it is very remarkable.

When Jeremiah was shut up in the court of the prison at Jerusalem,—when the Chaldeans were investing the doomed city which he knew must fall into their hands—then received he an intimation from God that he should purchase a field in his native place Anathoth, of which the right of redemption was his.

"What have I to do with buying land!" may have been the first thought of the wondering seer; "is this a time to receive olive-yards and vineyards? I am a prisoner and cannot get forth; Anathoth is now in the hands of the enemy, and soon will Jerusalem be so also. My people will be led into captivity; the Gentiles will rule in the land: what profit can there be in this field to me or to mine!"

But if such a thought arose, Jeremiah's faith suffered it not to influence his conduct. The purchase was to be made as a pledge and token that the captivity of Judah was not to last for ever; that the ransomed of the Lord should return to Zion; that Anathoth of Benjamin should again belong to the chosen race. Jeremiah would not live to see the return of his people, but he foresaw it by faith, and in faith bought the field as the Lord had appointed. We see the prisoner with calm thankfulness weighing out the seventeen shekels * of silver in the balances; a small sum, and yet probably deemed by many a desponding Jew too large to be thrown away upon what might seem to be a worthless claim. Mocking smiles may have been interchanged between the witnesses to so strange a transaction, when the prisoner subscribed and sealed the deed, and gave it to the faithful Baruch to be carefully preserved for a time yet remote. But Jeremiah had full assurance that such a time would arrive; for thus said the Lord of hosts to His prophet: "Houses and fields and vineyards shall be possessed again in this land . . . for I will cause their captivity to return."

We look upon Jeremiah's deed of purchase as a type of that claim which both Israel and Judah hold still on the land of their fathers. Jerusalem, with all the inheritance bestowed by God upon Abraham, is now in the possession of the followers of the false prophet; Judea, for the sins of her people is again in captivity, and her sons are scattered abroad amongst the Gentiles. The olive-yards and vineyards of Palestine are now—and for many ages have been the spoil of strangers. But it shall not be so for ever. Not by purchase but by promise is the whole land reserved for the sons of Abraham. The deed has been carefully preserved, not—as Jeremiah's—in an earthen vessel, but in God's own Book. The whole deed is too long for transference to these pages, but a portion may be transcribed, gathered from various books of the Old Testament Scriptures; each prophet, as it were, setting his seal to the precious document.

   "I will pour upon the house of David, and upon the inhabitants of Jerusalem, the spirit of grace and of supplications: and they shall look upon Me whom they have pierced, and they shall mourn for Him, as one mourneth for his only son, and shall be in bitterness for Him, as one that is in bitterness for his firstborn." *

   "Sing, O daughter of Zion; shout, O Israel; be glad and rejoice with all the heart, O daughter of Jerusalem. The Lord hath taken away thy judgments, He hath cast out thine enemy: the king of Israel, even the Lord, is in the midst of thee: thou shalt not see evil any more." †

   "At that time will I bring you again, even in the time that I gather you: for I will make you a name and a praise among all people of the earth." ‡

   "All nations shall call you blessed: for ye shall be a delightsome land, saith the Lord of Hosts." §

   "For, lo, I will command, and I will sift the house of Israel among all nations, like as corn is sifted in a sieve, yet shall not the least grain fall upon the earth. And I will plant them upon their land, and they shall no more be pulled up out of their land which I have given them, saith the Lord thy God." ¶

* Zech. xii. 10. † Zeph. iii. 14, 15. ‡ Zeph. iii.20

§ Mal. iii. 12. ¶ Amos ix. 9, 15.

   "And the heathen shall know that I the Lord do sanctify Israel, when My sanctuary shall be in the midst of them for evermore." *

   "At that time they shall call Jerusalem the throne of the Lord; and all the nations shall be gathered unto it." †

   "He shall cause them that come of Jacob to take root: Israel shall blossom and bud, and fill the face of the world with fruit." ‡

St. Paul, himself a Hebrew of the Hebrews, looked with faith and hope on this deed, and thus subscribed himself as a witness: "Blindness in part is happened to Israel, until the fulness of the Gentiles be come in. And so all Israel shall be saved: as it is written, There shall come out of Sion the Deliverer, and shall turn away ungodliness from Jacob: for this is my covenant unto them, when I shall take away their sins." §

Yes, the time is coming, and now may be near, when it shall be said, "Rejoice ye with Jerusalem, and be glad with her, all ye that love her: rejoice for joy with her, all ye that mourn for her"; ¶ when the gathering of her people shall be "as life from the dead." ║

Christian brethren, is this nothing to us? Shall we be cold and indifferent, nor strive to hasten the time of Israel's restoration by our prayers, and by such efforts as God may enable us to make? Oh! "Pray for the peace of Jerusalem, they shall prosper that love thee." The word of the Lord to Israel still standeth firm, "blessed is he that blesseth thee!"

XXXI.

IF the shadow of a curse could ever be said to lie on the inanimate instrument employed by man to work his evil will, surely it lies upon this, the first, as far as we know, ever used in the attempt to destroy a portion of God's holy Word.

On the dethronement of his brother by the King of Egypt, Jehoiakim had mounted the throne of his father Josiah, and for eleven years he reigned in Jerusalem. The sins of this wicked monarch drew down upon himself and his people the wrath of the Lord. For many years had the Prophet Jeremiah uttered the voice of solemn warning; sadly had he foretold the coming desolation. "The harvest is past, the summer is ended, and we are not saved. Oh that my head were waters, and mine eyes a fountain of tears, that I might weep day and night for the slain of my people! This whole land shall be a desolation and an astonishment, and these nations shall serve the King of Babylon seventy years."

At the command of the Lord the prophet dictated to Baruch the scribe all the words of his prophecies against Israel and Judah, and they were written down upon a roll. The prophet confided the roll to Baruch, and bade him read it aloud in the ears of the people in the house of the Lord.

"It may be," said Jeremiah, "they will present their supplication before the Lord, and will return every one from his evil way: for great is the anger and the fury that the Lord hath pronounced against this people."

The solemn announcement of coming ruin, though it led not, as in the case of Nineveh, to national repentance, yet excited interest and alarm. The princes of Judah sent for Baruch, and at their desire, he again, in their presence, read aloud the prophecies of Jeremiah. Fear fell on the nobles; "we will surely tell the king of all these words," said they unto Baruch. But aware of the storm of anger which might be roused in the monarch's breast, the princes counselled that both the prophet and the scribe should conceal themselves, and let no man know their hiding-place.

Then was Jehoiakim informed of the prophecies written against himself and his guilty land; and he sent Jehudi to fetch the roll, and read it in his presence where he sat in his winter palace, with all his princes assembled around.

Striking and solemn must that scene have been! There would be deep stillness in the royal chamber, broken only by the voice of the reader, uttering words of living power, which would fall on the ears of such of the silent listeners as had faith in prophecy, much as the voice of the judge pronouncing sentence of death falls on the ear of the criminal.

The nobles would watch the effect of the reading on the countenance of their king; would he, like Ahab, rend his clothes and put sackcloth on his flesh, and by humbling himself before God avert the threatened judgments at least for a time? Would he, like Josiah his father, go up into the house of God, call around him the priests and the people, both small and great, and read to them the Word of the Lord, honouring it, and mourning because of the curses written in the Book?

To Josiah a message had been sent, "Because thine heart was tender, and thou didst humble thyself before God, when thou heardest His words against this place . . . behold, I will gather thee to thy fathers, and thou shalt be gathered to thy grave in peace, neither shall thine eyes see all the evil that I will bring upon this place."

But the spirit of Josiah was not in his son. Instead of repentance and humiliation, anger and stubborn resistance to the will of the Almighty might be read on the darkening countenance of the King of Judea. He would not even suffer Jehudi to read to the end of the roll; Jehoiakim grasped it, and cut it with his knife, and not satisfied with this open insult to the Word of God, this defiance of the terrors of the Almighty, the king flung the mutilated roll into the fire which was burning before him, as if with the blackening parchment he could destroy that Word which abideth for ever! In vain two of the nobles present endeavoured to stay the rash hand of the king, entreating him not to burn the prophetic roll; the rage of Jehoiakim was not satisfied by the crime which he had committed, he wished to wreak his fury on the living witnesses for God, as well as upon His inspired Word; he commanded the seizure of both Jeremiah and Baruch, but the Lord hid them from the anger of the king.

What availed it to the wretched Jehoiakim that he had consumed to ashes the writing of the prophet against him? The Word of the Lord came to Jeremiah, saying, "Take thee again another roll, and write in it all the former words that were in the first roll, which Jehoiakim the King of Judah hath burned, and thou shalt say to Jehoiakim, King of Judah, 'Thus saith the Lord; thou hast burned this roll . . . therefore thus saith the Lord of Jehoiakim, King of Judah, he shall have none to sit upon the throne of David; and his dead body shall be cast out in the day to the heat, and in the night to the frost.' Then took Jeremiah another roll, and gave it to Baruch, who wrote therein from the mouth of Jeremiah all the words of the Book which Jehoiakim had burned in the fire, and there were added unto them many like words."

Such was the result of this first attempt to mutilate the Scriptures, and stop the free course of the Word of God. It may have been the first, but it assuredly was not the last effort of that kind. Jehoiakim's knife and Jehoiakim's fire have but been precursors of other instruments used for the same unhallowed purpose, notwithstanding the awful warning which is found almost at the close of the Revelation. "If any man shall take away from the words of the book of this prophecy, God shall take away his part out of the book of life."

Superstition has been actively employed from early ages in using the knife to mar and mutilate the Scriptures; she has tried to cut away the Second Commandment, to rend from the roll all the texts on which, as emblazoned in light, are written the doctrine of justification by faith. Nay, when she has found, like Jehoiakim, the knife insufficient for the work, she has literally cast the Bible into the flames, and not only the Book, but the bodies of many of those who counted its doctrines more precious than life! But superstition has had no power to destroy one inspired sentence, "The Word of the Lord endureth for ever."

Heresy, also, has diligently plied the knife on various parts of the sacred roll. Here one would cut away the testimony to the Divinity of Him "whose goings forth are from everlasting," here another would deprive us of the consolation to be derived from the truth that Christ "was in all points tempted as we are" though "without sin." But vain has been every wild attempt to destroy any part of the sacred Book, let man or Satan do what they may, "The Word of the Lord abideth for ever!"

In the present day many an eager hand is stretched out to grasp the knife. Now this part—now that part—of God's truth is fiercely assailed. Unbelief would cut away the record of miracles, would cast aside much of those sacred writings of which He who is the Truth itself said, "Search the Scriptures, for in them ye think ye have eternal life, and they are they which testify of Me." Sceptics and unbelievers may, like Jehoiakim, draw down on themselves a heavy doom; but they will find at last that the so-called wisdom of man is foolishness with God, and that they have no more power to destroy His Scriptures than passing clouds have to extinguish the sun which shineth in glory far far above them! "The Word of the Lord endureth for ever!"

Is there no danger of our falling into the sin of mutilating Scripture, though not, like Jehoiakim, with the knife? If we search the Bible in order to "confirm" our own views on religion instead of to "form" them, passing lightly over everything there which clashes with our notions, almost secretly wishing that some passages in sacred Writ were not to be found there, do we truly honour God's Word? There were parts of Jeremiah's roll which probably even Jehoiakim would have willingly preserved. All would gladly keep the promises, could they put out of sight the warnings and threats.

And so likewise in matters of doctrine: one treasures all the texts which proclaim free salvation through faith, another lets his mind only dwell upon such as enforce the necessity of a holy life and good works. I was once surprised at the dissatisfied feeling with which an excellent man regarded the Epistle written by St. James, who has been called "the apostle of duty." The Christian did not seem to realize the truth which has been well illustrated by one who represented St. James and St. Paul as soldiers fighting "back to back," under the same banner, against the same foes to the truth, but necessarily from their position facing different errors; each soldier strengthening and supporting his comrade by guarding him from strokes "from behind," where the enemy might have taken him at disadvantage.

Let us receive—honour—and keep the Bible in its integrity, deeming no portion superfluous which God hath thought fit to preserve; waiting for more light from above to reveal its hidden mysteries, and being assured that though heavens and earth may pass away, yet "the Word of the Lord endureth for ever!"

XXXII.

WHO can doubt that the God of Love notices the minutest act of kindness done to His servants, when even these rags of the Ethiopian are carefully preserved in the Scriptures, memorials of considerate thoughtful tenderness shown to His afflicted prophet.

The miserable Jehoiakim fell into the hands of Nebuchadnezzar, by whose command he was bound with fetters and ordered to be carried to Babylon. As no account is given in Scripture of Jehoiakim's death, it is surmised that the prophecy which foretold that his burial should be as "the burial of an ass," was fulfilled by his dying on the way to Babylon, and his corpse being thrown into a ditch, exposed to the heat of the day and the frost of the night.

For three months Jeconiah (or Coniah), a youth of eighteen, reigned in the place of his father Jehoiakim. Of him Jeremiah had prophesied, "Thus saith the Lord . . . I will give thee into the hand of them that seek thy life, and into the hand of them whose face thou fearest, even into the hand of Nebuchadnezzar, King of Babylon, and into the hand of the Chaldeans."

And even so came it to pass that the young king and his mother, his officers and princes, and thousands of warriors and artizans were carried away captive to Babylon, with the vessels of Solomon's Temple.

Zedekiah (the son of Josiah), the last native monarch of Judah, then mounted the throne of David, to suffer one day a fate even more terrible than that which had befallen his two brothers and his nephew, who had successively reigned before him. Zedekiah sought help from Egypt, and, as it appeared at first, with success, as on the approach of Pharaoh's army, the Chaldeans, who were besieging Jerusalem, retired. If the heart of Jeremiah had shared in the joy which this gleam of returning hope had caused in Jerusalem, it must have been to him a task all the more bitter to quench that hope in utter darkness. Anguish must have been his when he thus declared the message of God! "Behold Pharaoh's army which is come forth to help you, shall return to Egypt into their own land; and the Chaldeans shall come again, and fight against this city, and take it, and burn it with fire."

After uttering this terrible prophecy, Jeremiah made an attempt to quit Jerusalem, and return to his native land of Benjamin; but he was seized as a traitor by a captain of the ward, brought before the princes as one taken in the act of falling away to the Chaldeans, maltreated, and thrown into prison. For a time, the rigour of Jeremiah's captivity was softened by the king, who appears never to have doubted the innocence of the prophet. But Jeremiah's enemies were not satisfied with his imprisonment; they were determined to have his life, and to destroy him by a death of lingering suffering. Abusing the weakness of King Zedekiah, who delivered the prophet into their hands, the princes of Judah cast Jeremiah into a dungeon, or rather pit, in the court of the prison, which had mire at the bottom, in which their victim partially sank, and there his merciless foes seem to have left him to perish by inches from hunger and damp.

Such would probably have been the fate of Jeremiah, but for the intervention of Ebedmelech, not one of his own countrymen, but an Ethiopian in the service of the king. This African went to Zedekiah, and roused him to make an effort to save his innocent subject from so cruel a death. "My lord the king," said Ebedmelech, "these men have done evil in all that they have done to the prophet, whom they have cast into the dungeon; and he is like to die for hunger in the place where he is."

Ebedmelech succeeded in obtaining the king's order that he should take thirty men, and release the prophet from his dreadful situation. And here occurs the little trait of womanlike tenderness in the African, which God hath deemed worthy of record. Ebedmelech knew that Jeremiah must be drawn out of the pit by cords; he knew that in his probable state of weakness and emaciation the ropes would be likely to gall and hurt him. So he "went into the house of the king under the treasury, and took thence old cast clouts and old rotten rags, and let them down by cords into the dungeon to Jeremiah. And Ebedmelech the Ethiopian said unto Jeremiah, Put now these old cast clouts and rotten rags under thine armholes under the cords." And Jeremiah did so, and was safely drawn to the top.

The Lord did not fail to requite the deed of the Ethiopian, to whom was granted a special promise of deliverance in the coming time of trouble. "Thou shalt not be given into the hand of the men of whom thou art afraid." And here the African disappears from our view, and we know nothing further of Ebedmelech; but the soft wrappings which he collected to put over the rough ropes may afford us a pleasant and profitable subject for our reflections.

Ebedmelech not only did a substantial service to Jeremiah, but he did it in a tender considerate way; he did not, as most men would have done, hurt the prophet even in helping him. The complaint of the ingratitude of those who have received great benefits is very common in the world, but we shall often find that ingratitude has been caused by the want of delicacy in the benefactor who complains; he has supplied the "ropes" but neglected the "wrappings."

For instance, a sufferer is sunk in the pit of poverty; he has seen better days, his feelings are tender, the very means used to raise him are likely to wound him, to gall even while they relieve. But Christian love must regard the feelings as well as the outward wants of the sufferer; it should bestow a gift almost as if it were asking a favour; it should smooth what is rough, soften what is hard, and let down the wrappings with the rope.

Again, there is the same, and even greater, delicacy to be observed when he whom we would help is sunk in the pit, not of poverty, but of sin. We earnestly desire to draw him forth, for we know that if he stay, he must perish. Fervent exhortation, faithful reproof, may be as the cords in our hands, and with a prayer for success we use them; but our efforts will be far more likely to avail, if gentleness, consideration, and tenderness accompany earnest effort; if, shrinking from galling pride, or giving one needless pang, we let down the wrappings with the rope.

Nothing is really insignificant that affects the happiness or the character of men; a look or a word may awaken far more kindly feeling than the gift of a purse of gold, and that reproof is usually most effectual which is uttered in a tone of love.

XXXIII.

VERY different is the object of our present contemplation from the last—the gold from the tatters, the sceptre of a powerful monarch from the rags of an African servant—and even so our theme rises from man's mercy to that of God, from the kindness of Ebedmelech to the free grace of our Lord.

For it is not on the history of Esther herself that we will now dwell, except so far as she appears an emblem of the Church, the queen "all glorious within," whose clothing is "of wrought gold." Let us muse on how she, and with her every individual believer, dares to approach Him who is of "purer eyes than to behold iniquity," the great and terrible God, "who hath measured the waters in the hollow of His hand, and meted out heaven with the span."

There is, indeed, far too little of reverence in the way in which we too often enter by prayer the presence of our Lord. The careless posture, the wandering thought, the hastily-uttered supplication, seem to denote that Christians little realize how solemn a thing it is to draw nigh to the King of kings. Not thus did Esther approach the throne of Ahasuerus. If the traditional account preserved in the Apocrypha be true, her heart was in anguish for fear, she turned pale, and fainted, and fell. Not that God wills that such terrors should oppress His redeemed; they are permitted to "come boldly" to the throne of grace, they are commanded to draw near with a true heart, "in full assurance of faith;" but a certain degree of holy awe should be mixed with holy confidence; "let not thine heart be hasty to utter anything before God; God is in heaven, and thou upon earth, therefore let thy words be few."

But for the golden sceptre of grace held out to us through the mercy and merits of Christ, the sentence of death would indeed go forth against us when we appear before Him. "For our God is a consuming fire." "The mountains quake at Him, and the hills melt, and the earth is burned at His presence. Who can stand before His indignation, and who can abide in the fierceness of His anger?" But the love of Persia's king for his bride was but a faint shadow of the love of the Lord for His Church. "What wilt thou, Queen Esther? and what is Thy request? it shall be even given thee to the half of the kingdom."

Such were the gracious words of Ahasuerus to the trembling supplicant before him; and so the Church hears the tender assurance of her King, "Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find. Whatsoever ye shall ask the Father in My name He will give it to you."

And what was it that Esther came to entreat, when the golden sceptre of Ahasuerus was stretched out towards her? In the first place, the presence of the king at her banquet, and, beyond this, the preservation from destruction of herself and her people. Much the same as hers is the petition of Christ's Church to her heavenly King, only with the loftier blessings implored their order is reversed. The Church prays first for salvation, deliverance from death eternal, and then for the presence of her Lord—not for an hour or a day—but even for ever and ever.

If Esther, an orphan exile, born to bondage and sorrow, was able in royal garments to approach her lord, and invite him to a sumptuous banquet which she had prepared in a palace, the robes which she wore, the feast which she spread, were all the gifts of his love. She could but offer him of his own. How strikingly does this exemplify the position of the Church in regard to her Lord! By free grace He holds out to her the sceptre of pardoning mercy; by free grace He clothes her with the royal garments of righteousness; by free grace He enables her to welcome Him and minister unto Him. He is more ready to hear than she to pray, more ready to grant than she to implore. He has loved and will love her for ever, will save her from all her enemies, and crown her with joy everlasting.

Such are some of the comforting thoughts suggested to us by the golden sceptre, thoughts of mercy, grace, and love. It is a "sceptre," the emblem of power and dominion; a "golden" sceptre, reminding us of the word spoken of Christ our King, "Thy throne, O God, is for ever and ever: a sceptre of righteousness is the sceptre of Thy kingdom." It is a token of free salvation; they to whom it is extended shall live in the presence of God, shall stand accepted before Him; and it is a sceptre held out to every one who, in lowly faith, approaches Him who loved and gave Himself for us.

XXXIV.

BITTER must have been the shame and grief of the Jews when Nebuchadnezzar, King of Assyria, plundered the glorious building which they had raised, the Temple which, eleven years later, was itself given to the flames. Well was it for the good King Hezekiah that he lived not to see that day when his precious things, his silver and his gold, with the consecrated gold of the Temple, were carried away to Babylon, according to the word of the Lord spoken by the Prophet Isaiah. Great was the quantity of sacred vessels taken from Jerusalem, even if Ezra's list of those restored comprises them all. Thirty chargers and twenty basins of gold; a thousand chargers of silver. "All the vessels of gold and of silver were five thousand and four hundred." It was a humbling day to the captives from Jerusalem when the treasures of the sanctuary, the pride of their fathers, were placed as trophies in the idol temple of the Gentiles.

But we conceive yet stronger indignation excited in the breasts of Jewish exiles, when the sacred vessels were brought forth to add to the magnificence of the feast of King Belshazzar, when the heathen in riotous mirth quaffed wine out of those splendid chargers, and praised their own gods of silver and gold, of brass, of iron, of wood, and of stone! It was a sacrilegious hand that Belshazzar laid on the golden cup before us, a blasphemous lip that pressed its brim; and God at once avenged the insult to His Majesty. Part of a man's hand appeared writing on the wall terrible mysterious characters that no one present could read, and the king's countenance was changed, he trembled, his knees smote one another with fear. On that night was proud Babylon taken by the Persians under that Cyrus who subsequently restored to the Jews the vessels of their Temple, to be once more devoted to the service of the one true God.

The image of a vessel is repeatedly employed in the New Testament to represent human beings. St. Paul writes of God making known the riches of His glory on the vessels of mercy which He had before prepared unto glory; he describes a believer as "a vessel unto honour, sanctified, meet for the Master's use," and he was himself spoken of by the Lord as "a chosen vessel." It does not appear improbable that in each instance the idea was suggested by the vessels of the Temple. It seems as if some light might be thrown by the use of this simile upon the subjects of baptism and conversion.

In baptism every Christian adult or child becomes a vessel solemnly consecrated to God, even like the treasures of the Temple dedicated by Solomon to the Lord. Happy those who are never suffered to fall into the hand of the Enemy! What myriads of babes will there be in Heaven, little vessels of mercy that have never been defiled by wilful sin, but which have been safely laid up in the treasury above! But there are many baptized beings whose history is like that of the golden charger on which the mental eye now rests. They were indeed once solemnly devoted to God, but the world has them now, Satan has carried them away, they are no longer used in the Master's service. They are given to idols, they are filled with iniquity, and though some in the sight of men may be precious and beautiful still, they are no longer "vessels unto honour." They need to be washed, and cleansed, and given back—restored to their lawful Owner, and to their rightful use, and when God's grace has accomplished this, we call the blessed restoration "conversion."

It is therefore with feelings of grief, yet not unmingled with hope (like those which the Jews of old must have experienced in regard to their Temple plate), that believers should look upon the unconverted around them. It is not with loathing and contempt that the drunkard or the thief should be thrust aside; it is not with proud disgust that the Christian should turn from the multitude whose daily course of life proves them to be under the dominion of the Prince of this world, though they were baptized in childhood. These are all precious vessels, once dedicated to God, and which may be restored to His service still. They are in Babylon now, but they may be rescued from thence; that which has been filled with iniquity may yet overflow with grace; saved from the idol temple, snatched from the revel and the riot, they may yet be reserved to shine in glory amongst the jewels of their Lord.

What marvellous instances of such conversion have formed themes for the songs of rejoicing angels! Such men as John Newton and Vine Hall, and many others besides, were as vessels grasped by Satan himself and held up on high in unhallowed triumph: but they were to be wrenched from his hold, filled with grace and filled with glory, and made chosen vessels of the heavenly Temple which is built not by man but by God.

Fervent should be our prayers for the unconverted, whether they be those whom the world condemns or the world admires. There are some amongst them whose characters seem to bear no dark stain or spot: all acknowledge the metal to be precious and the form to be fair: they are so goodly—so bright—that it is hard to believe that they are not "vessels of honour." But alas! If they be not truly devoted to God's service and receiving His grace, they are like the golden chargers of the feast of Belshazzar, they are yet but "vessels of wrath." They are like beautiful chalices made to hold the wine of blessing, but taken from the church to the godless banquet. It is profanation when any baptized being is given up to the service of the world; the familiar sound of his own Christian name should remind him that he has once been devoted to God.

Let us close our meditation with the words of the apostle: "Every one of you should know how to preserve his vessel in sanctification and honour . . . And the very God of peace sanctify you wholly, . . . faithful is He that calleth you, who also will do it."

XXXV.

THE trumpet of Nehemiah is one of the objects in what we may call the sacred museum of Scripture, on which the mind rests with pleasure. It tells of earnestness and unanimity in a great work; its sound was a call to God's servants to help one another in a time of difficulty and of danger, when the Jews, after their return from Babylonish captivity, rebuilt the wall of their Zion. What a scene of anxious and yet joyful labour rises before us as connected with that trumpet!

We picture to ourselves the brave men of Judah, with the tool in one hand and the weapon in another, toil-drops beading their sun-burnt faces, labouring from the rising of the morn till the stars appeared; some, as we know, not even putting on their clothes at night, but throwing themselves down in their garments to snatch needful rest, till dawn should rouse them to fresh exertions. We picture to ourselves not only the men bending their strong backs under the burden, and straining their muscles to lift great weights, but the matrons and maidens of Zion, nay, even the little children, lending what help they might, trying to make up by zeal for want of physical power, bringing food and water to the workers; bearing, perhaps, the lighter burdens, or carrying rubbish away, and speaking those words of encouragement which would add new strength to the strong, and energy to the active.

We hear them repeating one to another the rousing call of their leader when bidding them prepare for attack from their foes: "Be not ye afraid of them; remember the Lord, which is great and terrible, and fight for your brethren, your sons, and your daughters, your wives, and your houses."

At one blast from Nehemiah's trumpet, weapons would have flashed from their scabbards, and a rush have been made to the spot whence the warning note proceeded, for thus writes Nehemiah: "He that sounded the trumpet was by me; and I said unto the nobles, and to the rulers, and to the rest of the people, The work is great and large, and we are separated upon the wall, one from another. In what place therefore ye hear the trumpet, resort ye thither unto us: our God shall fight for us!"

Even such a scene of active, earnest labour is around us now, realized by faith; in the midst of an opposing world, surrounded by difficulties, encompassed by snares, the labourers for God are raising the walls of the spiritual Zion. The Word of the Lord is their trumpet call, bidding them quit themselves like men and be strong; to fight against their own besetting sins, and at the same time to be ready for every labour of love, and especially such labours for souls as are typified by the building of the wall of Jerusalem, that city of the great King.

There is something delightful and exhilarating in the feeling of working together, combining in efforts for God. The labourers are indeed engaged on different parts of the wall, they may be "one far from another," yet is there a union of purpose between them, and the trumpet at any moment may call them to union in action. Not all are fit for the same kind of work; some are employed but to clear away rubbish, others are laying the strong, deep foundations, those prepare mortar, these hew stones, the work of many shows no visible result, whilst beneath the busy hands of their brethren the wall rises with marvellous rapidity. But all are helping in the building for God, and when the bulwark is completed, the glorious task done, how joyfully may the weakest of the workers exclaim: "I, even I, was a labourer too!"

Yes—on this building there is room for the efforts, not of the pastor alone, but of the "people;" not of the men alone, but the women; nay, even of the feeble little child. Something will be found for each to do, if all combine together. And how inspiriting is the feeling of brotherhood and sisterhood between those engaged in working for God! We may regard the great and successful efforts of some highly distinguished Christian, as a Jewish child, bringing but a few pebbles to add to the wall, may have regarded the giant strength of some Samson, heaving up to its place a huge mass, which the boy's feeble arms could not have stirred. The child would admire and rejoice in the strength of the man; and, if humbled, yet not discouraged, by its contrast with his own weakness, would do the little which he could do with the cheering thought, "I, even I, am a labourer too!"

Oh, how far preferable the humblest kind of spiritual work, to the shame of standing all the day idle, while God's people are anxiously toiling around us for Him!

There are very many ways in which we may help to raise the wall of our Zion. Missionary labour amongst heathen abroad and heathen at home is the most lofty kind of building work. The earnest clergyman, the ragged-school teacher, the Bible-woman, the Christian visitor to the haunts of poverty and the dens of sin, are those "directly" engaged in raising stone upon stone. Such need refreshment, encouragement, help; and to give it to them for the sake of the cause is "indirectly" to forward the building.

There is one way in which we can, as it were, bring our little contribution of mortar to fix the stones, which, though a way neglected by many, is beyond the strength of but few—by "the circulation of religious literature." There is, indeed, judgment required in the choice of religious works for such distribution. The mortar should in itself be good, and be "laid" on, not carelessly "thrown" on; but no great courage is usually required, except by novices in the work. In nineteen cases out of twenty, the book or tract which is courteously offered is civilly received, and sometimes thankfully and eagerly accepted.

A Protestant lady, just before entering a French church to see the interior, gave a tract to an old woman who chanced to be near the door. On the lady's leaving the church, the woman—who was doubtless a Roman Catholic—returned the tract, which she probably regarded as heretical trash. The lady, whose English companion did not sympathize with her tract-giving, took back the despised paper with a little feeling of embarrassment, which instantly passed away as a man held out his hand for what the woman had rejected, so that the lady had merely to pass the tract from the one to the other.

Travellers, while in search of health or amusement, would do well to remember that valuable opportunities may be afforded to them, when thus casually meeting with those whom they never again may see, of helping to build the wall of Zion. They are not likely to behold any effect of their work here; but labour for God, with faith and prayer, is "not in vain in the Lord."

Would that reflection on this subject would induce every reader who may glance at this little volume to form a prayerful resolution never to let "one day" pass without doing something, be it ever so little, towards raising the spiritual wall! How cold is our zeal, how careless our efforts, compared to those of the Jews under Nehemiah! "They" did not sit quietly in their homes, buried in studies, or absorbed by business, while the din of earnest work was going on around them, or the blast of the trumpet summoned all true sons of Abraham to do brave battle for the right. The nobles thought it an honour to be engaged in the work; the governor himself set an example of devoted energy in it. It was a day of triumph for Nehemiah and his companions when their glorious work was finished; when, in the words of the leader, "all our enemies heard thereof, and all the heathen that were about us saw these things, and were much cast down in their own eyes, for they perceived that this work was wrought of God."

But what will be the joy of those who have toiled for Christ, and in His strength, when they gaze on the jasper wall of "the holy Jerusalem, descending out of heaven from God," wherein those shall dwell who, ransomed and pardoned by the Saviour, have loved, lived, and laboured for Him! The trumpet in the hand of the archangel shall sound then no summons to conflict. And when the blessed review the time of their sojourn upon earth, with all its mingled trials and blessings while God's work was slowly rising to completion, will it not be one of their sweetest joys then to be able to say, "Unworthy as I was of a privilege so glorious, I, even I, was a labourer too!"

XXXVI.

THOUGH mentioned but once in Scripture, there are circumstances which invest the writing table of Zacharias with peculiar interest, as on it may be said to have been traced the first written sentence of the Gospel—the fulfilment of the words of the angel, with the name of him of whom the prophet Isaiah had foretold, that he should be "a voice crying in the wilderness, Prepare ye the way of the Lord."

As soon as Zacharias had written the words, "His name is John," what a thankful utterance of joy burst from the lips of the aged father! He that had been dumb now spake—his mouth was opened at once to prophesy and to praise. Zacharias was filled with the Holy Ghost, as his venerable wife had been before, and rejoiced in the Day-spring from on high, that was rising to give light to them that had long sat in darkness and in the shadow of death.

As the rosy clouds, flushed with his upward beams, seem to cradle the rising sun, so we find, at the first advent of the Sun of Righteousness, a holy radiance brightening the latter days of four aged saints, who were chosen, as it were, to reflect the first rays of coming glory, and bear witness to the Messiah.

First Elisabeth, then her aged husband, afterwards the venerable Simeon and Anna, gave thanks to the Lord, and spoke of the coming blessing to all them that looked for redemption in Zion. The song of the one seems to have been appropriate to all: "Lord, now let Thy servant depart in peace, for mine eyes have seen Thy salvation." With these saints, indeed, was the hoary head a crown of glory, for it was found in the way of righteousness.

The spirit of wisdom granted to these four aged believers reminds us of the words of the poet—

and lead us to reflect upon some of the privileges of a holy old age. When an aged Christian lady was once speaking of the different generations in a family, she remarked, "It is like a ladder—happy those who are near the top!" The observation contrasts strikingly with Moore's melancholy regrets for departed youth, and gloomy views of advancing age—

Age is commonly described by the expression, "descending into the vale of years:" with Christians, it should rather be, mounting towards the height of Pisgah; not going "down" into darkness, but "up" into light—nearer to God, and nearer to Heaven.

Thus it was with the four New Testament saints on whom we are reflecting; and the privilege which was granted to them, of witnessing to God's truth and rejoicing in His salvation, seems to be the especial portion of "aged" believers in every generation of mankind.

The old in years can, in a peculiarly forcible manner, witness to the truth and faithfulness of God.

"I have been young, and now am old," said David, "yet have I not seen the righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging bread."

"Behold, this day I am going the way of all the earth," cried the venerable Joshua; "not one thing hath failed of all the good things which the Lord your God spake concerning you."

Such words had additional weight from the very fact that those who uttered them were aged. When the old tell of the goodness of God—His power to sustain in trouble and to guide in difficulty—they speak, not merely of what they believe, but what they have "experienced." The respect due to the aged is enforced by the command of the Most High: "Thou shalt rise up before the hoary head, and honour the face of the old man, and fear thy God: I am the Lord."

The law is general; but never do we more strongly feel its force than when the hoary head has the halo of piety around it—when the old man, like Zacharias, stands up as a witness for God. His feeble broken accents may then have more power than the most fervid eloquence of the young, to lead the heart to trust in the love of Him who so fulfils His promise:

"Even to your old age I am He, and even to hoar hairs will I carry you: I have made, and I will bear; even I will carry, and will deliver you."

But if age has its privileges, it has also its own peculiar trials, especially in the case of the childless, and those who are encompassed with many infirmities. Solomon calls theirs "evil days, . . . when thou shalt say, I have no pleasure in them; . . . when the keepers of the house shall tremble, and the strong men shall bow themselves, and the grinders cease because they are few, and those that look out of the windows be darkened, . . . and fears shall be in the way, . . . and the grasshopper shall be a burden, and desire shall fail." How touching and how true a picture is here given of decrepit age, bowed down with feebleness and infirmity! When loneliness is added to all this—when the childless man has outlived all the companions of his youth, and the years of his long life have been marked out by gravestones—how deeply does he claim the sympathy and compassion of his brethren and sisters in the Lord! He may have a long, tedious time of waiting by the banks of Jordan, while they who were behind him press on before him; and though the prospect on the other side of "the narrow stream" be ineffably fair, on this side it is indeed a dry and barren wilderness to him.

But there is divine love even in the decree that so often weakens the powers and dims the faculties of the aged. Very beautiful is the simile used by a departed authoress, * when, alluding to the decay of sight and hearing which is natural to extreme old age, she remarks, that God acts towards His feeble servants as a tender mother towards her child as the time for rest approaches she draws the curtain to shut out the light, and stills every sound in the chamber, that, the outer world excluded, her beloved may more quietly sink into slumber. We may draw out the parallel further. When the memory ceases to retain its grasp upon what were once objects of interest, what is it but the same loving Parent gently taking from the child the toys of life's little day as the evening shades fall around, and laying aside whatever might keep the mind restless and awake?

God's love is remembered when the things of earth are forgotten. Who has not heard of the Christian, aged and dying, whose memory had so failed that he knew none of the friends around him, not even the wife, so fondly beloved; but when he was asked, "Do you know the Lord Jesus?" That name was so deeply imprinted in the heart and memory that the erasing of all besides left it but more distinctly legible, and the saint, in his second childhood, exclaimed, "Precious Saviour! He is my only hope." So, to pursue the simile, though the light was darkened and the room stilled, and all that had once delighted the senses was put away, God's child felt beneath him the everlasting arms, and knew the voice of the Parent hushing him to that sleep from which the same voice should awake him to life and to joy in the dawn of the everlasting day.

Such are a few thoughts suggested by a relic of the aged Zacharias, the saint well stricken in years, whose latter days were, we doubt not, his brightest and best. We know nothing of the struggles of his youth or the efforts of his manhood; but we know that the angel's visit and the message from God—the father's rejoicing, and the prophetic hymn inspired by the Holy Spirit—were reserved for the evening of a life which had been devoted to the service of God.

XXXVII.

IT is in no spirit of vain superstition that we regard this cradle of an incarnate God. Were the very manger in which Mary laid her heavenly Babe to be placed before our bodily eyes, we should not dare to fall down and worship it. But it is well that faith should linger by the manger of Bethlehem, and endeavour there to gain a more vivid perception of the amazing condescension of Him who came to visit us in great humility. While, therefore, with the shepherds, we adore the Infant wrapped in swaddling clothes and laid in a manger, let us attempt to raise our thoughts to the divine nature of Him who, in His poverty and His helplessness, appears to us here so truly human.

"He came unto His own, and His own received Him not." There was no room for Him in the inn. In one sense we might say that there was no room in the world for One:

"Whom heaven cannot contain,
Nor the immeasurable plain
Of vast infinity enclose and circle round."

For, while we rejoicing cry, "Unto us a Child is born, unto us a Son is given," we must also with awe remember that "His name shall be called the Mighty God, the Everlasting Father."

Let us glean from the Scriptures a few from the many proofs that He who was very Man was also very God; that the Babe who lay in the manger was one with Him who filleth the throne of Heaven. Unless we keep this "central truth" steadily before us, we shall have a very faint idea of the love and grace implied in the words, "who for us men, and for our salvation, came down from heaven."

"In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. The same was in the beginning with God. All things were made by Him." Such is the sublime commencement of the Gospel of the beloved disciple, upon whom rested the Spirit of Truth.

John had probably been present when the lips of the persecuted Jesus of Nazareth uttered the mysterious sentence, "I and My Father are One;" and he heard from the risen Saviour that revelation of Himself, "I am Alpha and Omega, the First and the Last." Here was the Lord of Heaven, repeating His own solemn declaration, uttered when He abode upon earth—that declaration for which the Jews would have stoned Him as a blasphemer—"before Abraham was, I AM." In that mysterious sentence, Christ assumed to Himself that incommunicable name by which God made Himself known unto Moses as the eternal Deity, to whom the past and the future form but one everlasting present. Eternity, it has been said, is the lifetime of God.

St. Paul also bears witness to Him who lay in the manger of Bethlehem, as the Creator and Preserver, as well as the Saviour of the world. "God . . . hath in these last days spoken unto us by His Son, whom He hath appointed Heir of all things; 'by whom also He made the world:' who, being the brightness of His glory, and the express image of His person, and 'upholding all things by the word of His power,' when He had by Himself purged our sins, sat down on the right hand of the Majesty on high." St. Paul quotes from the Psalms the testimony of the Eternal Father to the dignity of the Redeemer: "Unto the Son He saith, 'Thy throne, O God, is for ever and ever!'"

Micah the prophet witnessed of Him who was to be born in Bethlehem, that "His goings forth have been of old, from everlasting." Zechariah, in a passage, part of which our Lord Himself quoted, exclaims: "Awake, O sword, against My Shepherd, and against 'the Man that is My Fellow,' saith the Lord of hosts smite the Shepherd, and the sheep shall be scattered." This is He who, "being in the form of God, thought it not robbery to be equal with God: but made Himself of no reputation, and took upon Him the form of a Servant,—" yea, even that of a feeble Infant, lying in a manger, in an obscure corner of the world which He Himself had created.

Such a mystery as this the understanding of man cannot grasp; but faith meekly receives it, and reason bids us acknowledge, that He whose sacrifice was to be of "infinite" merit must needs Himself be infinite; that no created being could possibly have made satisfaction for the sins of a whole world, the redemption of which is a work as marvellous as was its first creation.

But nowhere do the marvels of that creation strike us with more overpowering force than when we muse on them beside the manger of Bethlehem. Let us consider Him who deigned to become a mortal Babe in the single attribute of power, as displayed in launching into space this globe in which we live, on which He stooped for a while to dwell, and which, as compared with the heavenly bodies around it, is but as a grain of dust in the universe created by Him by whom "all things were made."

Though the giving motion to our world was but a comparatively "small" exercise of such power, how overwhelmingly great it appears when set before us in the scientific page! Let us make an extract from "The Christian Philosopher": *

"However rapidly a ball flies from the mouth of a cannon, it is the flight of a body only a 'few inches' in diameter . . . The earth contains a mass of matter equal in weight to at least 2,200,000,000,000,000,000,000, or more than two thousand trillions of tons, supposing its mean density to be only about two and a half times greater than water. To move this ponderous mass a single inch beyond its position were it fixed in a quiescent state, would require a mechanical force almost beyond the power of numbers to express. The physical force of all the myriads of intelligences within the bounds of the planetary system, though their powers were far superior to those of men, would be altogether inadequate to the production of such a motion. How much more must be the force requisite to impel it with a velocity 'one hundred and forty times swifter than a cannon-ball, or sixty-eight thousand miles an hour,' the actual rate of its motion in its course round the sun! . . . The ideas of 'strength' and 'power' implied in the impulsion of such enormous masses of matter through the illimitable tracts of space are forced upon the mind with irresistible energy far surpassing what any abstract propositions or reasonings can convey, and constrain us to exclaim, 'Who is a strong Lord like unto Thee? Thy right hand is become glorious in power! The Lord God Omnipotent reigneth!'"

And it was He whose Word could thus launch forth, and for thousands of years keep the world and the other planets whirling round the sun at a speed that baffles thought to conceive, it was He who deigned to inhabit a human form so helpless that a woman's weak arms were needed even to lift Him out of the manger in which that woman had laid Him! The thought is overpowering, we can but prostrate our souls in silent adoration. Well might the angels, bending over the manger, desire to look into such a mystery; "God was manifest in the flesh"!

O blessed Redeemer, when even a faint glimpse of the riches of Thy glory falls on the mental eye, it seems to dazzle and blind; and yet, for our sakes, Thou didst become poor, so poor that the stable was Thy first earthly dwelling-place, and Thy cradle this manger! Grant unto us, feeble worms, the grace of Thy Holy Spirit, that we may be able to comprehend, at least in part, "what is the breadth, and length, and depth, and height, and to know the love of Christ which passeth knowledge;" that love which is infinite as Thy power, and everlasting as Thy existence!

XXXVIII.

THERE is a danger, especially to imaginative minds, when meditating on Scripture, to allegorize what ought to be taken literally, to lose the clear outlines of fact in a haze of fancy. May we be watchful against this! But the Bible is full of types and emblems, and many objects of which we read in Scripture naturally form themselves into such.

The miraculous draught of fishes is at once a fact and an allegory; the fishes were types of souls; something far beyond a mere present supply of food was betokened by the abundance in which these fishes were caught by the apostles. That such was the case is evident from the Saviour's promise, "I will make you fishers of men." The net therefore appears to us as a type of what St. Paul calls "the foolishness of preaching," by which it has pleased God "to save them that believe;" and it may not be unprofitable to us to pause for awhile by that net, and to consider some of the characteristics in which it resembles the teaching of the gospel by the ministers of God.

Two especially suggest themselves to the mind; its imperfection in itself, and its power when blessed by the Lord.

This net before us is twined of the same homely material as that of other fishermen, the hemp has undergone the same rough process of manufacture, toil-hardened hands have with patient labour formed every knot in its meshes, there is nothing in its appearance to charm the senses or attract the eye. Yet we do not turn from it because the web is not silken; we look not—care not for brilliancy of dye in the net which enclosed the miraculous draught. But how strangely critical are many amongst us in regard to the preaching of the Word! A blemish in style, a defect in pronunciation will sometimes mar the effect of an earnest discourse. The net must be silken to attract us; truth, when homely, too often offends. The ear and taste must be satisfied, though heart and conscience be left untouched!

Then, again, the net is not only of common material, but it requires both cleansing and repairing; we read of the apostles both as washing and mending their nets. Here the application of the lesson seems to be rather for the minister than his flock. The popular preacher, to whose words hundreds—thousands listen with rapt attention, who feels his net heavy with the richest of prizes, needs constantly to remind himself of the weakness and imperfection of the instrument which the Lord is deigning to bless. It was when the apostles were drawing in a multitude of fishes "that their net brake." When in the midst of their successes, servants of God suddenly feel their net breaking, when their physical or mental powers are crippled, so that they need to beckon to their partners that they should come and help them, is not this sign of the imperfection of their noblest talents sent to them lest they should fall into the sin of pride, and, albeit unconsciously, "sacrifice unto their net, and burn incense unto their drag;" rest complacently in those powers which at any moment might fail?

But if the net be but a poor instrument in itself, how marvellous its power when blessed by the Lord! How mysterious the faculty of stirring souls to their very depths, of sending forth words like arrows, which God Himself guides to the hearers' hearts! St. Peter, the illiterate fisherman, must have marvelled at the effect of his first recorded sermon. Three thousand souls gathered in at once, a number far larger than appears to have been drawn in during all the years of Christ's sojourn upon earth by the ministry of Him who spake as never man spake!

What were the emotions of the apostle when his preaching, by the might of the Spirit, brought into the Church such a harvest of souls? We know that the miraculous draught made him fall on his knees, humbled and overpowered under a sense of his own unworthiness, and exclaiming to the Divine Being who had wrought the miracle, "Depart from me, for I am a sinful man, O Lord!" May we not believe that St. Peter was far more humbled by the miraculous draught of souls, the mighty success granted to one who had, but a few weeks before, so sinned against light and love!

"What is this honour vouchsafed to me!" Such may have been the apostle's thought ere he laid down his head to rest that night, with his soul overflowing with thankful joy: "Have these lips, so lately polluted with cursing and swearing, these lips that have thrice denied my Lord, been permitted so to preach the gospel, that thousands are gathered into the Church! What am I that I should be chosen to enjoy a privilege so glorious!"

But though on that occasion the confession, "I am a sinful man, O Lord!" may have been uttered with far deeper consciousness of guilt than it was in the boat on Gennesaret; the "depart from me!" would never more be heard from the contrite Peter. His sense of sin would but make him cling the more closely to Him who taketh away sin; the greater his guilt, the greater his need that the Saviour should not depart, but abide with Him for ever!

XXXIX.

WHEN was a burden ever lifted more joyfully than this was, when at the Saviour's command the light bed was raised by the strong arms that had, but a few moments previously, rested in helpless weakness upon it! How joyfully did the restored paralytic make his way on his own feet through that crowd whose presence had rendered it impossible for his friends to bear him in on his bed! We know not of a single word spoken by the rejoicing pardoned believer in that hour of intense happiness, but surely the utterance of his heart must have been like that of the psalmist.

"Bless the Lord, O my soul, and forget not all His benefits! Who forgiveth all thine iniquities, who healeth all thy diseases; who redeemeth thy life from destruction, who crowneth thee with lovingkindness and tender mercies, . . . so that thy youth is renewed like the eagle's!"

We would gladly follow the restored sufferer to his home, and hear him recounting to eager listeners there what great things the Lord had done for him; describing his feelings of hope as—borne on that bed—he had approached the house in which the Master was teaching, then the fear, the anxiety, the difficulty which had followed when it was found to be useless to attempt to carry the invalid in. How grateful must he have felt to those friends whom difficulties would not daunt, especially to whoever first offered the suggestion to let him down through the roof!

The sufferer could not help his friends in their labour of love, but how anxiously he had watched it, and, when gently lowered down by kind hands, with what a trembling hope had he found himself in the immediate presence of the Redeemer! To hear such scenes described by those who were the immediate actors in them, may probably be one of the joys reserved for God's children in Heaven.

How would the restored paralytic in the course of his after-life regard that bed on which he had lain perhaps for weary year after year! Would the associations connected with it be those of pain or of pleasure? Would he dwell on the long wearisome days, the dreary nights which he had spent on that bed when he had no power to lift himself from it? Would he sigh when he looked on it from the recollection of all that he had had to endure? We cannot think this, however long, or painful, or trying, his illness may have been; it is far more likely that the sight of that bed would bring to his mind recollections on which memory would dwell with rapture.

"It was when stretched on that bed that I first looked on my Lord, and met His glance of ineffable love and compassion! It was when stretched on that bed that I heard those accents which will thrill delight through my soul to my dying day, yea, and through all eternity,—'Son, be of good cheer, thy sins be forgiven thee!' Oh, God be praised that I ever was sick! I thank, I bless, I adore Him for the weakness, the helplessness, the disease which brought me so close to my Lord, and made me a monument thus of His everlasting mercy and grace!"

And thus will many a dear Christian brother or sister, long afflicted by sickness, look back on the couch of suffering when the Lord has restored health to the feeble frame, or when—through what man calls death—He has bidden the pardoned believer "arise," never more to lie down in pain. Many will doubtless have cause to say, "It was in love and mercy that sickness and suffering were permitted to chain me down to my bed; it was from thence that I first looked through faith on my Saviour—there first I knew that my sins were indeed forgiven. My weakness made me rest in Christ's strength—my sufferings brought me to His feet. I would not exchange the lessons learned, the privileges enjoyed on that sick-bed, for all the wealth of the world!"

The story of the paralytic man is fraught with comfort also to those in sorrow for loved ones afflicted either in body or in mind. It is terrible to watch sufferings which we cannot relieve, to seek aid from physicians but to find that their utmost skill is exerted in vain. Which of us has not known the wearing anxiety, the sickening suspense, when a precious life is at stake? Oh! Let us not then rest on earth, and put down our loved burden in despair. We must "go up higher," we must carry our friend upwards on the strong arms of prayer, we must lay him at the feet of the Saviour. The Son of Man hath still power to say, "Arise, take up thy bed and walk."

Still more earnest should be our efforts when the sickness of him for whom we pray is that of the soul—the sickness of sin. Bodily health and strength and beauty may be united with deadly spiritual paralysis. Some seem as if they would not—could not—come to the Saviour; they have no power to rise, they are chained down by the cares or pleasures and follies of the world; when others are pressing in to hear God's Word, they remain in peril without.

Let us, as it were, carry those who will not or cannot walk, let us bear the burden on our hearts. God is trying our faith and our patience. Have we clambered the outward stair, have we toiled to uncover the roof—to remove as far as we can the obstacles which divide the paralyzed soul from the Lord? And then, using the bands of love, the "cords of a man," have we gently placed our burden even at the feet of our Heavenly Master? He has still power to say to the diseased and paralyzed soul, "Thy sins be forgiven thee," and to bid it arise to walk in newness of life, to tread in the paths of holiness, to run with vigour that blessed race of which Heaven itself is the goal!

XL.

IN the olden times when legends and traditions, like parasites mantling a tree and hindering its healthy growth, had appeared well-nigh to choke gospel-truth while meant to adorn it, the day of the supposed discovery of the true cross was made a festival; * its name was given to province and city; and fragments, however small, of what was deemed so inexpressibly sacred, were esteemed amongst the greatest treasures of princes. Satan would be well pleased to see adoration paid to pieces of wood, if he could so draw away the minds of the pious from contemplation of the true cross, as it is preserved for believers in the Bible alone, to be touched only by Faith as she repeats the words of St. Paul, "God forbid that I should glory save in the cross of our Lord Jesus Christ."

* "'Invention of the Cross,' an annual feast solemnized on the 3rd of May, in memory of Helena's (the mother of Constantine) finding the (supposed) true Cross of Christ deep in the ground on Mount Calvary, where she erected a church for the preservation of part of it." English Encyclopædia.

With the deepest, most solemn reverence, let us now draw nigh in spirit to this altar, on which was offered the one "full, perfect, and sufficient sacrifice, oblation, and satisfaction, for the sins of the whole world." Let all worldly thoughts be put off; it is on holy ground that we tread, as the cross—stained with that most precious blood which alone cleanseth from all sin—draws our contemplation to Him who upon it agonized and died for mankind.

That Christ "could" suffer proves that He was human; that He could "so" suffer, proves that He was divine, for Deity alone could so hold the tortured frame in subjection as to keep it suspended for six hours in agony upon the cross. A mere man, by the force of strong will, may give himself up to death—may so overcome the shrinking of nature as to spring down the chasm, or throw himself into the waves. Many martyrs have yielded up their lives willingly and cheerfully, "but who could die as Jesus died?" His was no single effort of will, but a prolonged exercise of it, hour after hour, amidst sufferings more excruciating than the mind can conceive. We cannot doubt that He who is "the mighty God" could at any moment have ended those sufferings; no nails could have fixed Him to the cross; not the united powers of a thousand peopled worlds could have kept Him there for an instant! The unutterable pangs which the Saviour endured were His own deliberate choice, and it was His own infinite love which made Him sustain them even to the end. We know this from the Lord's declaration:

"I lay down My life . . . No man taketh it from Me, but I lay it down of Myself. I have power to lay it down, and I have power to take it again."

Christ had but to will it, and the cross of shame would instantly have been exchanged for the throne of glory, and the mocking crowds have been stretched blackened, blasted corpses before Him! We speak of our Lord's temptation in the wilderness—what must have been His temptation "on the cross"? Such as none but Deity could have resisted—none but God have overcome. A Paul might have consented to be crucified for the sake of his brethren—but could even a Paul have remained long on the cross had it needed but an act of volition to release him? Human nature must have failed under the trial. The fondest of mothers clinging by her hands to the edge of a precipice, with her infant fastened to her shoulders, must let go ere long, though conscious that her child as well as herself will be dashed in pieces by her fall.

The weight of a world's salvation hung on the Redeemer, and He "would not let go."

"Come down from the cross!" cried out agonized human nature,—Christ could, but He would not come down. This was constancy beyond that of humanity; this was the endurance not of a man but of a God!

There appears to be a mysterious analogy between the great act of the Creation and that of the Redemption of the world. After the six days in which the Lord made earth and the things within it, He "did rest the seventh day from all His works;" and so, after the six hours of anguish, the Saviour rested in death from the more awful work of redemption. Another analogy arises in the mind, though it is mentioned with some hesitation, as Scripture warrant cannot be brought forward to support it. It is an ancient well-known tradition that the world will endure six thousand years under our present dispensation, and that then will come the long Sabbath of rest. If it be so, is it impossible that each hour on the cross may have had a mysterious relation to each thousand years—that the two first hours of agony may have expiated the guilt of the antediluvian race; the succeeding, that of its successors; the increasing numbers of sinners corresponding with the tortures which, towards the close of the awful time of sacrifice, would naturally most fearfully increase?

If such a suggestion be admitted, what a peculiar interest have we, who live in these latter times, in the dying thirst—the agonized cry, which appears to have marked the climax in the sufferings of our blessed Redeemer! The idea links itself on to another. Is it impossible that before Him who knoweth all things may have passed in prophetic vision every human being who should enter Heaven through the merit of those pangs which He at that moment was enduring? That the Lord "waited," with arms outstretched, strained muscles and bleeding hands, until the last, the very last, should be safe; and till—knowing that none, not the least of His flock should perish—Christ could at length exclaim, "It is finished", and so bow the head and yield up the ghost?

There is something inexpressibly touching in this thought, especially if we regard the possibility that some one now breathing on this globe may have been the last one for whom the Lord waited on the cross! Perhaps some prodigal for whose soul a mother is now wrestling in prayer; perhaps some poor heathen slave in a distant land; perhaps some despised one brought up in haunts of vice, the answer to whose first cry of faith and repentance, "God be merciful to me a sinner," will be the sound of the trumpet announcing that the world's great suffering-time is ended, and that the last saved soul being gathered in, the glorious Sabbath shall commence!

Let us pause for a few moments, and with closed eyes and bended knees attempt to realize the thought,—"the Saviour waited on the cross for me!" For "me" was that awful thirst, for "me" that intolerable pain. Christ would not save Himself from a death of torture, because—with all my coldness, selfishness, sinfulness—He could not, would not, suffer me to perish!

A few words inscribed under a picture of the Crucifixion were once made the means of converting a soul; they were as a question from Him who hung on the cross, these touching words are addressed to us all—what reply dare we return? "I suffered this for thee; what dost thou for Me?"

XLI.

"When sorrowing o'er the stone we bend,
Which covers what was once a friend,
And from his hand—his voice—his smile,
Divides us for a little while?"

Let the mourner draw nigh to this stone which closed the sepulchre of the Lord, and beneath its quiet shadow meditate on the solemn and most blessed doctrine of the resurrection.

With aching hearts, with drooping heads, the disciples of the crucified Saviour turned from the sepulchre in which they had seen His sacred body laid. For Him, indeed, the awful trial was over; He was beyond reach of the cruelty of soldier, or the malice of priest. Those holy eyes were clothed in death, no cry of anguish would ever more burst from those pallid lips, the blood had ceased to flow from the pierced hands and side. For the Master indeed there was rest, but for the disciples desolation, for none in that hour of anguish appears to have believed or understood the re-iterated promise,—

What was the world, then, to the followers of Christ, without Him who had been their Friend and their Guide, the Life and Light of their souls! That tombstone seemed to shut them out from all that remained to them of One so deeply reverenced, so tenderly beloved.

And when early in the twilight which preceded the Easter morn, women drew near to the grave to pay the last honour to the body of the Lord, this same stone, heavy, sealed and guarded, appeared to their anxious minds as a barrier between them and Him.

"Who shall roll us away the stone from the door of the sepulchre?" was the perplexed enquiry of those whose love was stronger than their faith. But the stone had been rolled away by an angel's hand, and had become the seat of a messenger from Heaven, whose countenance was like lightning, and his raiment white as snow; at the sight of whose glory the guards had trembled, and become even as the dead!

The Lord of Life had risen indeed, the first-fruits of them that sleep; the sepulchre had yielded up its heavenly guest; Christ had led captivity captive, and by dying abolished death! Thenceforth all believers could exclaim, "O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory? Thanks be to God, which giveth us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ!"

This stone stands as a representative of all that shuts out from the eye of love, from the sunshine of Heaven, the mortal forms that once held souls that Christ hath redeemed. The little grassy mound in the churchyard over some babe whose brief span of life—

the heavy monument in the cemetery, the solid walls of the vault, the earth-covering in the deep pit on the battlefield, the unfathomable sea which rolls over the dead,—all, all shall yield up their trust!

Again shall an angel of God descend from heaven; again shall the solid earth tremble and shake; again shall rocks be rent and graves be opened; and as Christ, the Head, arose, so shall the body—the Church—arise! Hear the glorious words of Isaiah's prophecy, omitting the italics which are not in the original text, and which seem to obscure its meaning:

"Thy dead shall live, My dead body shall they arise. Awake and sing, ye that dwell in dust: for thy dew the dew of herbs, and the earth shall cast out the dead."

Oh, joyful Easter morn, for which Faith is watching and waiting! When the first dawn of its coming light is around us, and the shadows of night are beginning to flee, well may our Lord address to mourners for departed saints the question, "Why weepest thou?"

Christ when He rose from the dead was again restored to His loving followers, but, as regarded visible presence, for only a little space; but when the graves of His saints shall be opened, when from countless sepulchres the heavy stones shall be rolled back, it is to no transient glimpses of the Lord, to no brief moments of blissful intercourse that they will then be admitted.

"I know that my Redeemer liveth, and that He shall stand at the latter day upon the earth: and though after my skin worms destroy this body, yet in my flesh shall I see God: whom I shall see for myself, and mine eyes shall behold, and not a stranger—" (marginal reading).

No, NOT A STRANGER! When Mary first beheld her risen Lord, her eyes were holden that she should not know Him, and as a stranger she addressed Him! But the saints as they burst from the sod in the morn of the resurrection shall at once recognize Him, whom not having seen they have loved! They will know the voice of the Good Shepherd who has led them through the wilderness of life, and the valley of the shadow of death!

"And it shall be said in that day, Lo, this is our God; we have waited for Him, and He will save us: this is the Lord; we have waited for Him, we will be glad and rejoice in His salvation."

WE find in the seventh chapter of the book of Revelation a description of the sealed ones, the spiritual Israel, under the names of the tribes to whom was granted the promised inheritance of Canaan. If it be, as many believe, that we here behold Christ's Church under a different symbol, yet identical with her of whom we read in the forty-fifth Psalm, the twelve names in Revelation beautifully fill up the description of "the King's daughter, the Queen," who is "all glorious within," for all these names have meanings. The virgins, her companions, that shall be brought into the King's palace with gladness and rejoicings, may be regarded as representing "the multitude which no man could number, of all nations and kindreds, and peoples and tongues," who appear to be distinct from, and yet in some degree sharers in the blessedness of the sealed ones, "the hundred and forty-four thousand." Let us examine the meaning of the names mentioned in Revelation vii., and see if they are not as twelve stars in the crown of the "Church of the firstborn," * placed on her head by Him whom she worships, because He is the Lord her God.

And, first, we mark what name is "omitted." DAN had a place amongst the twelve tribes of Israel under the Law, but none amongst the spiritual Israel. The signification of the word may throw light upon what is otherwise dark and mysterious. Dan signifies judgment. There was judgment stern and terrible under the Law, but in the Gospel "mercy rejoiceth against judgment." The curse has been removed, the penalty endured by another; Dan is, as it were, absorbed and disappears. It is remarkable that when Jacob on his death-bed blessed his sons, after speaking of Dan, "judgment," then, and then alone, he burst forth into the exclamation, "I have waited for thy salvation, O Lord!"

Following the order in which the names of the tribes are given by St. John, the first of which we read is:

JUDA, "the praise of the Lord." And so praise unto Him who hath chosen and redeemed her is, as it were, the first gem, the central star in the crown of the Church, the spiritual Bride.

REUBEN, "see the Son, or who sees the Son," a name of deep meaning if we may take it as descriptive of the precious privilege of her whose "eyes shall see the King in His beauty, the pure in heart" who shall look upon God.

GAD, "a band," or "happy," or "armed and prepared." * The interpretation seems to speak for itself. The Church is a chosen "band" of those who are "happy" in the love of their Lord; who have been "armed" to fight the good fight, and "prepared" for the coming of Him whom, not having seen, they have loved. Of such is the spiritual Israel.

ASER, "blessedness," or "happiness." The Church, when she enters the palace of her Lord, will shine in blessedness for ever. Immortal happiness will beam from her countenance, the reflection of the light of Him in whose presence is the fulness of joy, and at whose right hand there are pleasures for evermore.

NEPTHALIM, "my wrestling, or one that struggles." Here we are reminded that they who bear the palms of victory are they that have endured the conflict. A reference may also be made to earnest wrestling in prayer. Esther, ere the hour of triumph, might be said to have earned the name of Naphtali. The Church who will wear the garment of praise, now appears in the spirit of heaviness, wrestling, struggling, till He with whom she pleads grant her more than she dares to ask for, or to desire.

MANASSEH, "forgetfulness." This name was given by Joseph to his firstborn in Egypt; "for God," said he, "hath made me to forget all my toil, and all my father's house." The patriarch's words sound like a response to the exhortation addressed to the bride in the psalm,—"Hearken, O daughter, and consider . . . forget also thine own people, and thy father's house." The vanities of earth, with its sorrows and sins, put away and forgotten for ever!

SIMEON, "that hears or obeys." In this word is described a special attribute of the Church of Christ, the obedience of faith. "He that hath My commandments and keepeth them, He it is that loveth Me," saith the Heavenly King. It is the Church that listens to His voice, that seeks to follow wherever He leads. Of Reuben, the patriarch, it was said, "unstable as water thou shalt not excel;" but Reuben's name taken in its hidden meaning may remind us that "even water, hearing and obeying" the Lord, became as a well at His bidding, or firm as a pavement under His feet.

LEVI, "joined," or "held and associated." Here is a description of that union of which, alas! amongst those who are called Christians, we now see so little. There is too much of the party spirit which cries, "I am of Paul—I of Apollos," with believers who should be one in Christ. Should mere form and ceremonies, the colour of a garment, a posture, or a name, have power to separate those whom God Himself hath joined together? We need larger Christian charity. The higher we rise towards Heaven, the wider spreads the horizon around. Not but that purity of doctrine must ever be jealously guarded, we must earnestly contend for the faith once given to the saints; but as regards those non-essentials by means of which the enemy would divide us, and bring discord into the Church, well may we say,—

Judge not thy differing brother, nor in aught
Condemn; his prayer and thine may rise above,
Though blending not in "unison of thought,"
Yet mingling in the "harmony of love."

ISSACHAR, "price, reward." A touching allusion may here be contained to the truth that we are not our own, but "bought with a price;" that the salvation of the Church is the "reward" of a Saviour's merits, the purchase of a Saviour's blood. To the spiritual Israel comes the message, "Fear not, for I have redeemed thee, I have called thee by thy name, thou art Mine."

ZABULON, "dwelling." Under another figure we find the Church represented as the temple of an indwelling God. "If a man love Me," said the Lord, speaking of each individual believer, "he will keep My words: and My Father will love him, and we will come unto him, and make our abode with him." St. Paul reminded the early Christians of this high privilege granted to them. "Know ye not your own selves, how that Jesus Christ is in you, except ye be reprobates? Know ye not that ye are the temple of God, and that the Spirit of God dwelleth in you?"

JOSEPH, "increase." Here we have in the name of Israel's best beloved son the description of one of the essential attributes both of the Church and of each of her members; "growth" in grace, "increase" in knowledge and brotherly love. The Church is not only a temple but a living body, that must be nourished and exercised, till "it come in the unity of the faith, and of the knowledge of the Son of God, unto a perfect man, unto the measure of the stature of the fulness of Christ." It is the Spirit of God whose effectual working "maketh increase of the body unto the edifying of itself in love."

BENJAMIN, "the son of the right hand." The impression conveyed by such a name as this is that of power, honour, and strength. It is the name which Jacob substituted for that bestowed on his youngest son by a dying mother, BENONI, "the son of my sorrow." By birth every child of Eve "is born unto trouble, as the sparks fly upward;" as Benonis we enter into the world, and as Benonis we must have left it, had not the Father of mercies and God of all comfort changed the nature of His child, as Jacob with his changed the name; so that the worm * should "thresh the mountains," and to the feeble be given "power over the nations." †

This very slight sketch of the features of the Church as drawn in the names of the tribes of Israel must be considered as little more than suggestive; an abler hand than mine may fill up the outlines, and so give us a glimpse of the spiritual beauty of the Queen when she shall be presented to her Lord "without spot or wrinkle, or any such thing," robed in His righteousness, bright with His glory, and blessed in His love!

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