dence designed a contrast between the wise man and the wit, the believer and the infidel,-HALLER and Voltaire. But instead of dwelling on distant or foreign instances, I would hasten to the nearest and most recent parallels.

No doubt many here have read the last days of Dr. THOMAS BATEMAN. His history is interesting as the transition from materialism to the faith of the Gospel, and as the change from worldly morality and honourable conduct to that Gospel's higher standard of holiness. It was a year before his death that, after some serious conversation, he one Sabbath allowed a friend to read to him Scott's "Essay on the Inspiration of Scripture." His clear and vigorous intellect accompanied every sentence with intensest earnestness, and, as powerful minds are apt, perhaps saw the argument more forcible than the judicious author puts it. When the essay was ended, he exclaimed, "This is demonstration! complete demonstration!" and begged his friend to read to him the account in the Gospel of Christ's resurrection. For some days his quickened mind was all avidity for Scripture, and, as he had nearly lost his sight, he constantly employed those around him in reading to him from the Bible; and, as one morning soon after he expressed it, "It is quite impossible to describe the change in my mind. I feel as if a new world was opened to me, and all the interests and pursuits of this have faded into nothing in comparison with it." And though he saw from the first the atonement's sufficiency, and had no distrust about his personal forgiveness, he could only speak with bitter tears of his former life of irreligion and rebellion against God. Led on, step by step, he soon reached the peace unspeakable of a confirmed believer; and though he had often feasted on intellectual pleasures, and had quaffed with undisguised delight the cup of human praise and professional success, and had entered with exuberant zest into most worldly amusements, he now for the first time tasted true happiness. "The blessing of his conversion," he frequently declared, "was never out of his mind; it was a theme of perpetual thanksgiving; and he never awoke in the night without being overwhelmed with joy and gratitude in the recollection of it. And once, when a friend inquired if there were no interruption in his joyful emotions, he answered, "For some months past, never;

and never the smallest rising of anything like impatience and complaint." There must surely be a glorious reality in that religion which made fame and fortune so suddenly look like dross in the eyes of a man lately burning with ambition; and there must be a Divine attraction in that Saviour who drew away from gay society and a lifesome world this brilliant man in the vigour of his power, and made him exclaim, as he felt death's palsy creeping up his limbs, "Oh yes! I am to go!"

GLAD

There are few members of another profession for whom I confess a more entire admiration than Dr. MASON GOODE. Devoted to his calling, and distinguished by his abundant acquaintance with its numberless details,—his publications proving him a master of its science, and withal most successful in its practice, he had all the enthusiasm for other branches of knowledge which the more expansive natures exhibit; and whilst an adept in many, and striving to be simple and familiar in all, he was a sciolist or tyro in none.

Those who have read his notes to Lucretius, and Job, must be impressed with the extent of his scholarship; and from these translations and his "Book of Nature" united, we have carried away a delightful idea of their author's picturesque eye and gorgeous fancy. We recognise the devout and scientific musings of a St. Pierre dissolved in the sunny verse of Thomson. And when we are told that the popular lecturer, the bookish scholar, the extensive author, the fervent poet, and the busy practitioner, was no less the fond father and the cheerful but instructive companion, we confess that there are few from whom we would sooner take a lesson in the art of living. And though something must be ascribed to a constitutional activity, more may be traced to a scriptural and deepening piety. Even in the days when he frequented a Socinian chapel, the fear of God was before his eyes, and he wished to be more devout than his meagre creed permitted. But when he was graciously guided into "the truth supreme," when in "God manifest in the flesh" he found a resting-place for his spirit and a rapture to his inert convictions, there came a new comfort over his home; and in the personality and affectionateness of this better creed he found fresh beauty in every object, and a new incentive to every exercise. And though it is asking you to form an idea

of one departed by showing a lock of hair, yet as a little sample of those pleasant thoughts which blossomed along our London streets as a busy but cheerful Christian trod them, I may read the following:

Not worlds on worlds in phalanx deep
Need we to prove a God is here;
The DAISY, fresh from Winter's sleep,
Tells of his hand in lines as clear.
For who but He that arch'd the skies,
And pours the day-spring's living flood,
Wondrous alike in all he tries,

Could form the daisy's purple bud?
Mould its green cup, its wiry stem,
Its crimson fringe so nicely spin;
And drench in dew the topaz gem
That, set in silver, gleams within?
And fling it unrestrained and free,

O'er hill and dale and desert sod, That man, where'er he walks, may see In every step, the stamp of God? But, perhaps, the finest specimen of living Christianity lately recorded in the medical profession is the instance of Dr. HOPE. My medical hearers are acquainted with those contributions he made to the literature of his science, and of which, of course, I only know by report. But there is something truly sublime, which any reader may appreciate, in that power of application and heroic self-command, to which, under God, he owed his rapid rise and enduring reputation. Averse to the profession, he forced himself to enter it, because it was his father's wish; and naturally revolting from research into the structure of the corporeal frame, he compelled himself to be a skilful dissector, and became one of the most famous anatomical draughtsmen whom England has yielded. Nor have we a nobler specimen of devoted industry than in the self-denial with which he closed his eyes on magazines and newspapers and amusing literature till his great and laborious works were ended. And there is something spirit-stirring in the swift and steady rise to the high places of the faculty of the youth who came to London with only one private acquaintance there. But the grandest thing of all is to see how this vigorous mind was at once strengthened and softened by the grace of God. Whilst travelling in Italy he got acquainted with a pious English family, and impressed by the happy scene he witnessed there, he wrote to his brother, "Whatever the world may say, my dear George, it is a clear case to me that the saints have the laugh on their side. If wishing would add me to their number I would get enrolled to-morrow." And it was not long

till he got "enrolled." Soon after his settlement in London he felt constrained to bestow all the energies of his calm and comprehensive intellect on the study of revealed religion; and under the teaching of God's Spirit he was soon guided into a conclusive belief of the great saving truth. To that Divine Redeemer whom he then discovered his soul clave with an affiance which the events of life never shook, and which death only made final; and with a singleness of aim betokening the child of God he learned to look on every step in his professional rise as an additional advantage for promoting God's glory in the world. And there were three things in his eminently intelligent but no less practical piety which we think can never be too often repeated, nor too much sought after, his reverence for the Sabbath, his constant recourse to prayer, and the death by which he glorified God. On the Lord'sday he always attended public worship twice, and he usually contrived to secure several hours for the study of his only theological text-book, the Bible. And so much did he honour the Divine command, "Remember the Sabbath-day to keep it holy," that twice over he cheerfully risked his appointment to an important office, rather than canvass, or do "any work," on that day. And rejoicing in God's special providence; believing that to omnipotence there is nothing arduous, and to omniscience nothing too minute, he was a man of prayer. work was commenced without asking for the Divine blessing; no important step taken without applying for the Divine guidance; when harassed by professional vexation, it was by prayer he regained his wonted serenity; and, when surrounded by difficulties and threatened by disappointment, in prayer he found a strength not his own, and submission to the will of God, whatever that might be." And just as his life was devoted to God, so the Lord wonderfully supported his servant when he came to die. In his fortieth year, stricken with a mortal malady, his clear foresight told the end and nearly fixed the date. But having already completed the grand preparation, his main anxiety was to fill up the nine months on which he counted with work that should serve his generation. He continued to practise as long as his strength permitted, and then stopped, only reserving time to complete two medical memoirs, and as he found that

No

his handbreadth would hardly suffice for this purpose, he tried to redeem the ebbing hours by discontinuing his daily exercise. Closing his town residence and bidding good bye to his patients, he escaped to Hampstead; and though he knew that it was the house where in a few weeks he must take his last look of earth, he never gazed on spring with such youthful glee as the morning after arriving there. He was only once in his carriage after that. It was to visit Highgate cemetery, and fix all about his funeral. And as, in his own view, the grave was all streaming with the light of immortality, he was anxious that others should see it as he saw it himself, and calling to him his only child, he would say, "You see, Theodore, what a lucky fellow I am. You have your fortune to make; but mine is ready made for me. I am going to my heavenly inheritance, you know how hard I used to work formerly to get fees for you and mamma; but all that is over now; my toil is at an end." The radiance of the better country had so settled all around him that his dearest friends felt heaven open for him; and every indication of nearer departure sensibly cheered himself. His trust was all in Jesus. "I have often taken a practical chapter of the New Testament, such as the winding up of one of the Epistles, or the Sermon on the Mount. I have determined to act up to it during the day; but, alas! I often forgot it altogether, and when I did remember it, how miserably did I fall short of it. This, more than anything, shewed me the original sin in my nature, and threw me on the promises of Christ. I found it was useless to rest too much on details; but I took fast hold upon the grand leading truth, that Christ is an all-sufficient satisfaction for sin." And at last one happy midnight, when he found himself dying, he called to his wife and said, "I will not make speeches; but I have two things to say. The first was an affectionate farewell to herself; and in uttering it he was seized with violent coughing. When that had abated, she reminded him that he had something else to say, and begged him to take the earliest opportunity. "The second is soon said. Christ is all in all to me. I have no hope except in Him. He is, indeed, all in all."

Perhaps the Christian grace which has been most splendidly illustrated by the medical faculty is humanity. There are two vulgar notions on this subject with

which we have no sympathy, because we know them to have no reality. Some think that instead of humanity, the tendency of medical pursuits is to harden. It is very true that from his familiarity with anguish and mortal maladies, and from the function he has to perform, the physician or surgeon preserves his equanimity in scenes where others abandon themselves to the wildness of sorrow; but coolness is not callousness, and we know many instances where the man of science has preserved a mechanical serenity in the scene of distress and been haunted in his home and through his sleep by the agony he sought to relieve. And the other vulgar error is, that because the man of skill is often paid for his advice, that therefore he is paid for his humanity. It is a low and stupid notion. The physician is paid for his prescription, but sympathy and tenderness and solicitude are things which the Bank of England could not buy. The interest which most distinguished practitioners have felt in their patients, the anxiety for their recovery, and the assiduity with which they have sought to assuage the pangs they could not heal, are generous actions awakened, not extinguished, by frequency amidst agony and woe; and, instead of a long journey through hospitals and sick-rooms blunting the sensibilities, the young practitioner may be sometimes light-hearted, but the old one learns humanity by the sufferings he has seen. And to name no other instance: in that arena of the angry passions, a battle-field, the only representatives of the better feelings are the members of the medical staff. After ambition, cruelty, revenge, and fury have fought it out, and destruction has done its worst, and the demons of the day have left the scene, they suffer the better spirits and gentler hands who ply the healing art to take their place; and it only needs a glance at the histories of a Larrey, a Pringle, or a Bell, to know the self-immolating zeal of the army surgeon, who, the week after the battle, throws away his constitution or his life in the ceaseless effort to mitigate its misery. The day after the Battle of Aboukir the English General was riding over the scene of action to ascertain if there were any wounded overlooked, when turning a wall near the sea, he was struck with the painful spectacle of a hundred French soldiers with their officers, huddled together and grievously wounded by the grape from a British brig of war.