man has more curiosity than piety, more taste than sanctity, and that people are more anxious to hear some new thing, or read some beauteous thing, than to read or hear about God and the great salvation. He knew that few would ever ask, What must I do to be saved? till they came in contact with the Bible itself; and, therefore, he made the Bible not only an instructive book, but an attractive one-not only true, but beautiful. He filled it with marvellous incident and engaging historywith sunny pictures from old-world scenery, and affecting anecdotes from the patriarch times. He replenished it with stately argument and thrilling verse, and sprinkled it over with sententious wisdom and proverbial pungency. He made it a book of lofty thoughts and noble images -a book of heavenly doctrine, but withal of earthly adaptation. In preparing a guide to immortality, Infinite Wisdom gave not a catechism, nor a dictionary, nor a grammar, but a Bible; a book which in trying to catch the heart of man should captivate his taste, and which, in transforming his affections, should also expand his intellect. The pearl is of great price, but even the casket is of exquisite beauty. The sword is of ethereal temper, and nothing cuts so keen as its double edge; but there are jewels on the hilt and fine tracing on the scabbard. The shekels are of the purest gold; but even the scrip which contains them is of a texture more curious than that the artists of earth could fashion it. In speaking of the literary excellence of the Holy Scriptures, I am aware of a twofold disadvantage. Some have never looked on the Bible as a readable book. They remember how they got long tasks from it at school, and spelled their arduous way through polysyllabic chapters and joyless genealogies. And in later life they have only heard it sounded monotonous from the drowsy desk, or recited by a frosty clerk to a cold cathedral. So irksome and insipid has every association made the book, that were they shut up in a parlour with an old directory, and an old almanac, and an old Bible, they would spend the first hour on the almanac, and the next on the directory, and would die of ennui before they opened the Bible. They have got at home a set of their favourite classics, and on an evening of leisure, they will take down a volume of Chaucer, or Milton, or even Thomas Fuller, or Jeremy Taylor, or an Elzevir Virgil, or a Foulis's Homer, and read at it till long beyond their time of rest; but to them the Bible is no classic. They don't care to keep it in some taking or tasteful edition, and they would never dream of sitting down to read it as a recreation or an intellectual treat. And then there are others in a happier case to whom that Bible is so sacred, who have found it so full of import, and to whom its every sentence is so fraught with Divine significance, that they feel it wrong or revolting to read it with the critic's eye. They would rather ponder it on their bended knees, praying God to shew them the wonders in his word, than, pencil in hand, peruse it as a scholar or a rhetorician would. They would rather study it in the company of Luther or Leighton than along with Erasmus or Scaliger. And with these last we own a decided sympathy. But we trust that both will bear with us a little, whilst we endeavour to shew that if no book be so important as the Bible, so none is more interesting; and that the book which contains most of the beautiful is the one which must ever remain the standard of the good and the true. And here we would only add one remark which it is important to bear in memory. The rhetorical and poetical beauties of Scripture are merely incidental. Its authors wrote not for glory nor display-not to astonish nor amuse their brethren, but to instruct them and make them better. They wrote for God's glory, not their own; they wrote for this world's advantage, not to aggrandize themselves. Demosthenes composed his most splendid oration in order to win the crown of eloquence, and the most elaborate effort of ancient oratory, the Panegyric, to which Isocrates devoted fifteen years, was just an essay written for a prize. How different the circumstances in which the speech on Mars Hill was spoken; and the farewell sermon in the upper chamber at Troas! Herodotus and Thucydides composed their histories with a view to popular applause; and Pindar's fiery pulse beat faster in prospect of the great Olympic gathering and the pœans of assembled Greece. How opposite the circumstances in which the seer of Horeb penned his faithful story, and Isaiah and Jeremiah poured forth their fearless denunciations of popular sins! The most superb of modern historians confesses the flutter which he felt when the last line of his task was written, and he thought that "perhaps his fame was established." A more important history concludes :"These things are written, that ye might believe that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of God; and that believing ye might have life through his name.' And those of you who remember the proud finale of the Roman lyrist, "Exegi monumentum," should read alongside of the eloquent but egotistic vaticination, the last words of Israel's sweet singer:-" His name shall endure for ever: his name shall be continued as long as the sun and men shall be blessed in him all nations shall call him blessed. Blessed be the Lord God, the God of Israel, who only doeth wondrous things. And blessed be his glorious name for ever: and let the whole earth be filled with his glory; Amen and Amen. The prayers of David the son of Jesse are ended." Remembering, then, that the Bible contains no ornamental passages, nothing written for mere display that its stedfast purpose is "glory to God in the highest' and the truest blessedness of man-I repeat, that that Bible abounds in passages of the purest beauty and stateliest grandeur, all the grander and all the more beautiful because they are casual and unsought. The fire which flashes from the iron hoof of the Tartar steed as he scours the midnight path is grander than a pyrotechnic exhibition, for it is the casual effect of speed and power. The clang of ocean as he booms his billows on the rock, and the echoing caves give chorus, is more soul-filling and sublime than all the music of the orchestra, for it is the music of that main so mighty that there is a grandeur in all it does-in its sleep a melody, and in its march a stately psalm. And in the bow which paints the melting cloud there is a beauty which the stained glass or gorgeous drapery emulates in vain, for it is the glory which gilds beneficence, the brightness which bespeaks a double boon, the flush which cannot but come forth when both the sun and shower are there. The style of Scripture has all this glory. has the gracefulness of a high utility. has the majesty of intrinsic power. has the charm of its own sanctity. never labours, never strives, but instinct with great realities, and bent on blessed ends, has all the translucent beauty and unstudied power which you might expect from its lofty object and all-wise Author. It It It It There is no phenomenon in nature so awful as a thunderstorm, and almost every poet, from Homer and Virgil down to Dante and Milton, or rather down to Graham and Pollok, has described it. In the Bible, too, we have a thunder-storm, the 29th Psalm,-the description of a tempest which, rising from the Mediteranean and travelling by Lebanon and along the inland mountains, reaches Jerusalem, and sends the people into the temple porticoes for refuge. And besides those touches of terror in which the geographical progress of the tornado is described, it derives a sacred vitality and power from the presence of Jehovah in each successive peal. "The voice of the Lord is on the sea: the God of glory thundereth: the Lord is on the mighty sea. The voice of the Lord is powerful; the voice of the Lord is full of majesty. The voice of the Lord breaketh the cedars; yea, the Lord breaketh the cedars of Lebanon. He maketh them also to skip like a calf; Lebanon and Sirion like a young unicorn. The voice of the Lord divideth the flames of fire. The voice of the Lord shaketh the wilderness; the Lord shaketh the wilderness of Kadesh. The voice of the Lord maketh the hinds to calve, and discovereth the forests and in his temple doth every one speak of his glory. The Lord sitteth upon the watertorrent; yea, the Lord sitteth king for ever. The Lord will give strength unto his people [and now the sun shines out again]: the Lord will bless his people with peace.' Amongst those who have expressly written on the sublime, it is agreed that the most thrilling spectacle is one whose obscure outline or vague presence at once suggests the supernatural. Of this sublime in terror the fourth of Job supplies an acknowledged instance :— *Over many of the Psalms, it sheds a flood of new significance when the reader understands their mechanism, as in the case of many it has been disclosed by the labours of Lowth, Horsley, Hengstenberg, and others. It was one happy morning in his house at Dundee, that my dear friend, Robert McCheyne, shewed me the geographical structure of this 29th Psalm. Who first observed it, or whether it was a thing revealed to himself, I cannot tell; but it certainly enhances the meaning of this majestic ode when we conceive the spectator-psalmist as standing with the awe-struck multitude in the thunder-storm as it advances from the Metemple-porch, and watching the march of the diterranean or "mighty' sea, and at last bursts in a water-flood around themselves. A thing, too, was imparted to me secretly: And the multitude of my bones did shake: the little hills rejoice, and the valleys sing. The Bible landscape has a limpid freshness as viewed by an eye which carnality has never dimmed, or rather that loving and observant eye which grace has made young again. It needs no dryads to people its woodlands, no oreads to flit over its mountains, no naiads to give It stood, but I could not discern its form: mirth to its waters or music to its A figure before mine eyes: -Silence-and I heard a voice, "Shall a mortal be righteous before God: Shall a man be pure before his Maker?" But, perhaps, the poetic beauty in which the Bible most excels all other books is description of the world around us. A better idea of the poetic susceptibility was never given than when John Foster called it physiopathy, "the faculty of pervading all nature with one's own being, so as to have a perception, a life, an agency, in all things.' "If you observe a man of this order, though his body be a small thing, completely invested with a little cloth, he expands his being in a grand circle all around him. He feels as if he grew in the grass, and flowers, and groves; as if he stood on yonder distant mountain-top, conversing with clouds, or sublimely sporting among their imaged precipices, caverns, and ruins. He flows in that river, chafes in its cascades, smiles in the water-lilies, frisks in the fishes. He is sympathetic with every bird, and seems to feel the sentiment that prompts the song of each, and from this ability to transfuse himself into every object around him, in a certain sense, he inherits all things." To which, we would only add, that besides this poetic sympathy with nature, the sacred writers seem to have possessed a still purer perception of what nature is. They not only could transfuse their own life into the landscape, but they could discern how much of the living God is there. And instead of that material semblance which a Claude or a Rembrandt might project on his canvas, or Virgil or Shenstone might embody in his verse, they inhaled Jehovah's breath and hearkened to Jehovah's voice, and received into their adoring bosoms as much of Jehovah's life as lingers in our defaced and fallen world. Hence it comes to pass that the book which contains by far the brightest and most vivacious landscape, the holiest and happiest view of the things around us is the Word of God. Viewed in his own light, and delineated by his own pencil, the mountains skip, the seas clap hands, | streams; for a higher animation fills them, and every chiming brook and fluttering spray, every zephyr and every blessed sound is a note in God's own anthem. "Praise the Lord from the earth, ye dragons and all deeps: fire and hail : snow and vapours: stormy wind fulfilling his word: mountains and all hills: fruitful trees and all cedars: beasts and all cattle: creeping things and flying fowl: kings of the earth and all people: princes and all judges of the earth: both young men and maidens: old men and children : let them praise the name of the Lord: for his name alone is excellent; his glory is above the earth and heaven." But instead of quoting illustrative The surface pours forth bread, For it is not to be found in the land of the living. The sea says, "It is not in me," And "Not in me," echoes the abyss. For the precious onyx or the sapphire. The burnished gold and crystal cannot equal it, Nor golden trinkets match it. For the attraction of wisdom is beyond rubies. The topaz of Ethiopia cannot rival it, Hid from the eyes of all living "We have heard of its fame with our ears." God understands its track, He knows its dwelling-place: For to the ends of the earth he sees, When he fixed the course of the rain highest order of literary effort, is not after all the most popular. Were we putting it to the world at large, we should likely find that the books they like best are those which are less exalted above the every-day level, and whose simple incidents and cheerful glimpses and human pathos bring them home to every man's comprehension and feeling. In this sort of narrative that world's book, the Bible, abounds. Do you ask for tenderness? "And Ruth said to her mother-in-law, Entreat me not to leave thee nor to return from following after thee: for whither thou goest I will go, and where thou lodgest I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God: where thou diest, will I die, and there will I be buried: the Lord do so to me, and more also, if aught but death part thee and me." Do you ask for pathos? "And Cushi said, Tidings, my Lord the king for the Lord hath avenged thee this day of all them that rose up against thee. And the king said unto Cushi, Is the young man Absalom safe? : And Cushi answered, The enemies of my Lord the king, and all that rise up against thee to do thee hurt, be as that young man is. And the king was much moved, and went up to the chamber over the gate, and wept: and as he went, thus he said, O my son Absalom, my son, my son Absalom! Would God I had died for thee, O Absalom, my son, my son!" Or do you ask for natural, simple, and affecting narrative? "A certain man had two sons and the younger of them said to his father, Father, give me the portion of goods that falleth to me. And he divided unto them his living. And not many days after the younger son gathered all together, and took his journey into a far country, and there wasted his substance with riotous living. And when he had spent all, there arose a mighty famine in that land; and he began to be in want. And he went and joined himself to a citizen of that country; and he sent him into his fields to feed swine. And he would fain have filled his belly with the Behold! the fear of the Lord, that is husks which the swine did eat: and no WISDOM, And to depart from evil is UNDERSTAND ING. It would consume all this evening were I reading from the prophets and the psalms those passages of grandeur which make the sacred text so awful and august. And of that class I shall read no more. But, perhaps, the sublime, though the man gave unto him. And when he came to himself he said, How many hired servants of my father's have bread enough and to spare, and I perish with hunger! I will arise and go to my father, and will say unto him, Father, I have sinned against heaven, and before thee, and am no more worthy to be called thy son: make me as one of thy hired servants. And he arose, and came to his | father. But when he was yet a great way off, his father saw him, and had compassion, and ran, and fell on his neck, and kissed him. And the son said unto him, Father, I have sinned against heaven, and in thy sight, and am no more worthy to be called thy son. But the father said unto his servants, Bring forth the best robe, and put it on him; and put a ring on his hand, and shoes on his feet: and bring hither the fatted calf, and kill it; and let us eat and be merry: for this my son was dead, and is alive again he was lost, and is found." I could very willingly have extended these remarks to other species of composition, and would have liked to shew particularly how many models of eloquent argument and engaging discourse are contained in the New Testament. But on the wide field of revelation, with its intellectual opulence, I forbear to enter. I can easily understand how the Bible was one of the four volumes which always lay on Byron's table, and it would be easy to fill a lecture with the testimonies, witting or unwitting, which painters, sculptors, orators, and poets have rendered to the most thoughtsuggesting book in all the universe. It never aims at fine writing. It never steps aside for a moment for the sake of a felicitous expression or a good idea. It has only one end, to tell the world about God and His great salvation. And yet the wonder is, that it has incidentally done more to supply the world with powerful and happy diction, and literature with noble thoughts and images, and the fine arts with memorable subjects, than, perhaps, all other books that have been written. The world's Maker is the Bible's Author, and the same profusion which furnished so lavishly the abode of man, has filled so richly and adorned so brilliantly the book of man. And just as that Bible is the great storehouse and repertory of mental wealth, so I must add that its vital truth is the grand source of intellectual power. When Sir Samuel Romilly visited Paris immediately after the first French revolution, he remarked, " Everything I saw convinced me that independently of our future happiness and our sublimest enjoyments in this life, religion is necessary to the comforts, the conveniences, and even the elegances and lesser pleasures of life. Not only I never met with a writer truly eloquent, who did not at least affect to believe in religion, but I never met with one in whom religion was not the richest source of his eloquence.' And I am persuaded that in things intellectual, the rule will hold that piety is power. I am persuaded that no productions of genius will survive to the end of all things in which there is not something of God; and I am farther persuaded that no book can exercise a lasting ascendancy over mankind on which his blessing has not been implored, and in which his Spirit does not speak. Of all the powers and faculties of the human mind, the noblest is the one which God has created for himself; and if that reverential or adoring faculty do not exist, or be by suicidal hands extirpated, the world will soon cease to feel the man who had no fear of God. The stateliest compartment in this human soul is the one which, in creating it, Jehovah reserved for his own throne-room and presence-chamber; and however curiously decorated or gorgeously furnished the other compartments be, if this be empty and void, it will soon diffuse a blank and beggarly sensation over all the rest. And thus, whilst the Voltaires and Rousseaus of Atheist memory are waxing old and vanishing from the firmament of letters, names of less renown but more religion, brighten to a greater lustre. So true is it that no man can long keep a hold of his fellow-men unless he himself first has hold of God. But if a sincere and strenuous Theism be thus important, such rational faith in God as buoyed the wing of Plato in his long and ethereal flights, or bulged the Saxon thews of Shakspear in his mightiest efforts, incomparably more prevalent is that intellectual prowess which a scriptural faith produces. He is no unknown God whom the believer in Jesus worships, and it is no ordinary inspiration which that God of light and love supplies to his servants. And were it not for fear of tediousness, I would rejoice to enumerate one genius after another which the Gospel kindled, if it did not create. That Gospel, beyond all controversy, was our own Milton's poetic might. It was the struggling energy which, after years of deep musing and wrapt devotion, after years of mysterious muttering and anxious omen, sent its pyramid of flame into old England's dingy hemisphere, and poured its molten wealth, its lava of gold and gems fetched deep from classic and patriarchal times, adown the russet steep of Puritan theology. It was the fabled |