HOUSE BEAUTIFUL; (continued 2)

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.

The Jawbone of an Ass.

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.

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.

Ruth's Barley-ears.

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:—

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.

Job's Sackcloth.

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,—

"The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord!"

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.

Dagon's Stump.

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,—

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.

Rather be ours the prayer of the Christian poet:—

XX.

Saul's Spear.

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.

Jonathan's Bow.

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.

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. *

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.

David's Harp.

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."

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!

XXIII.

Absalom's Hair.

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,—

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.

Seed Corn from Barzillai's Gift.

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.

Temple Lily Work.

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.

The Widow's Cruse.

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.

Elijah's Letter.

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:

XXVIII.

Jonah's Gourd.

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.

The Fetters of Manasseh.

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!