templating those glorious promises which lead him to cherish a hope beyond the grave, of an eternal rest in the presence of his Saviour. How small to him do then become those objects for which he is from day to day contending! How vain the greatest of worldly enjoyments! How foolish the ambitions, how base the desires, how groveling the appetites of worldly men! Earth and earthly things then diminish and grow distant to his sight, as though seen through a reversed telescope; and heaven becomes brighter and brighter, and its glories more and more illumined with celestial light, as he gazes upon them through the medium of that hope which the Spirit has imparted to him. And can it be true, his own spirit gently whispers to him, that those fading, evanescent joys of earth have found so large a place in this breast, while these glowing, rapturous, infinite glories, were so near at hand? Can this soul have been drinking from those poisonous streams, while such "fountains of ever-pure delight" were inviting it to taste of their waters and live for ever? What is there in that sinful and contentious land, that so induces me to stray and linger among its tortuous and slippery paths, while such "flowers of loveliest hue," such groves of heavenly peace, such wafts of celestial air, and such angelic harmonies, invite me to rejoice among them for ever? To all this his heart returns but one response. It is sin. Sin has led all human hearts astray. Sin has debased the fair image of the Creator, has fettered the soul to earth, has dimmed the moral eyesight that it cannot behold the purity and glory of its Creator. But grace and mercy came down from heaven in a Saviour, who was crucified, that sight might be given to the spiritually blind, to enable them to penetrate within the veil, and gaze upon those glories which a gracious God has in reserve for his children. The christian should often meditate upon the value, the inestimable worth, of that hope which enables him spiritually to anticipate those heavenly glories. And, as the recipient of any valuable gift, when he gazes upon it, with gratitude remembers his beneficent donor; so will the christian, when he reflects upon the magnitude of his reward, dwell with tearful joy upon Him who has suffered and died to gain him an access to his Father's throne, an entrance to the glories of his divine presence, where are joy and peace for evermore. His heart will swell with gratitude as he compares his own unworthiness with the "matchless worth" of the offering made for his sins; humility and love will mingle together in his thanksgivings; and his prayers will arise like grateful incense to heaven from his loving, hoping heart. Have kind parents or faithful friends been severed from him by death? he feels the ties of his heavenly Parent's friendship twine closer around his heart. Have his riches taken unto themselves wings and flown away? have poverty and want distressed him? he knows that he has treasures above that are inexhaustible and imperishable. Have pain and sickness afflicted him? he acknowledges that whom his Father loveth he chasteneth, and he resigns himself to the hands of Him who will raise him up, and give him a place where sorrow and pain can never come. His hope will illumine his darkest nights, and shew him sources of comfort and joy where others can see only disappointment and despair. And, it is the nature of the christian's hope, that it beams the brightest when all else is the most dark and gloomy. Prosperity, and riches, and worldly honours, may dim and tarnish its beauties; but, as these fly away, or as the approach of death renders them more and more insignificant, and the anxious looks of friends, and the tears of kindred, tell that the "silver cord is loosing," that hope grows brighter and brighter till it glows with beauty and lustre, and the whole horizon becomes red with its light to the eyes of the dying christian, unfolding to his enraptured vision glimpses of those glories that soon will give rest to his weary, earth-worn soul. How rich, then, to him, is the love of God; how sweet the promises of his Saviour! He feels his "everlasting arms" supporting him through the dark valley; and, as he hastens to plant his feet within the celestial city, his grateful heart sings songs of gratitude to Him who pointed to him the way of salvation, and implanted within his bosom the christian's blissful, undying hope. "I AM WEARY-TAKE ME HOME." The pageant was imposing, and the gay assembled throngs, A chord was touched,—a nerve was thrill'd, yet 'twas no dulcet strain The vision changed,-I stood within a dear familiar room; She spoke with patient sweetness (surely angels waft such sighs) "I am weary-take me home," then on earth she closed her eyes. I gaze upon the stage of life,-I know its tinsel glare, Its hollowness and falsity, its promises so fair: Its scenes of misery I view with sympathising heart, Yet in its bright illusions never more to play a part: Life's day is short,—I rouse from sleep, for gloaming hour doth come, PRAYER. There is an eye that never sleeps There is an arm that never tirés That eye is fixed on seraph throngs; But there's a power which man can wield, That eye, that arm, that love to reach, That power is prayer which soars on high, And feeds on bliss beyond the sky! Scripture Exposition for the People. RESISTANCE AND CONCESSION. Acts xv. BY THE REV. S. G. GREEN, B.A. The first serious controversy of the ehurch, like so many other important events in its history, arose at Antioch, and was connected with the apostle Paul. "Certain men who came down from Judæa, taught the brethren, and said, Except ye be circumcised after the manner of Moses, ye cannot be saved." This was before the separation of Paul and Barnabas; and it was agreed that those two brethren, with some others, should form a deputation to Jerusalem, that a question so important should be discussed by the church in that city, and the resident apostles. The matter was there fully debated, and, at length, through the light and power of the Holy Spirit, it was unanimously resolved that the demand of the Judaizers was unscriptural, and that the ceremonial law was not binding upon believers in Jesus. It is not our purpose now to enter into the details of this momentous discussion, or to settle its claims to be called, as it often is, "the first general ecclesiastical council.' We wish simply to note an incident which, as the apostle states in writing to the Galatians, occurred during his residence in Jerusalem. One of his companions was Titus, a young disciple of Gentile origin. Pending the debate it was insisted by many that he should be circumcised. This demand was stoutly and successfully resisted by Paul.† He "gave place by subjection? no, not for an hour!" The decision of the church confirmed the propriety of his course; and in his own conviction of its rightness he never swerved. Indeed, he expressly declares in the very letter which records the facts, "If ye be circumcised, Christ shall profit you nothing: for," he adds, "I testify to every man that is circumcised, that he is a debtor to do the whole law. Christ is become of no effect unto you, whosoever of you are justified by the law, ye are fallen from grace."‡ We are, therefore, at first, perhaps, somewhat surprised to read that after his return to Antioch, and his separation from Barnabas, on setting out for another missionary tour, one of the first things he did in re ceiving a new companion, Timothy, was to take and circumcise him, "because they knew all that his father was a Greek." The conduct of the apostle, in the two cases, has, indeed, been not seldom charged with inconsistency. Critics of later times have decided that in circumcising Timothy he was too lax; critics of his own day would very likely have judged that in refusing to circumcise Titus he was too yielding. And must we not, at any rate, adopt one or other alternative? Can actions diametrically opposite be brought under the same general head of right and christian motive? In answering this question, we must not simply say, that Titus was a Greek by descent from both parents, Timothy only on his father's side. For we cannot be sure of the former: and the latter is nothing to the purpose. Timothy had been educated as a Gentile. Familiar as, "from a child," he had been with the Holy Scriptures, he had remained an alien from the commonwealth of Israel. True, he may have had the heart of an Israelite; but he had no claim to be regarded by others as belonging to the chosen people. The broad distinction was between the uncircumcised and the circumcised. In the former class, whatever his parentage, the lot of Timothy had been. There the glad tidings had reached him, and he had become Paul's son in the gospel. It was, therefore, not as a believing Jew, but as a christian Gentile, that he was circumcised by the apostle. That very thing which Paul had, at all hazards, refused to do at Jerusalem to Titus, he did at Lystra to Timothy. We believe, however, that in each instance the apostle's conduct was consistent with itself, and with the principles of the Gospel. For the circumstances of the two cases were altogether diverse. The circumcision of Titus was required as essential to salvation, that of Timothy was the apostle's free act, with consent, as free, of the young disciple. In the former case, Authority, with its menaces, came in to say, "You must;" and was met with the firm rejoinder, "I will not !" In the latter, per fect liberty was allowed; other motives then came into play; and in the spirit of christian love and prudence, Paul aud Timothy said, "We will." They were going forth on a very difficult mission. They must conciliate everywhere before they could hope to succeed. Paul had already proved that the hardest persons in the world to conciliate were the descendants of Israel. If he went to them with an uncircumcised companion, they were sure to refuse him a hearing; his message would be rejected, and his opportunities lost. For the sake of gaining access to them, therefore, "to the Jews he became as a Jew, to them who were under the law, as under the law." At the same time it is quite certain that had the circumcision of Timothy been demanded by others as a matter of principle or as essential to salvation, it would have been utterly resisted. A truth of much practical importance is thus established. Many actions are right or wrong according to the way in which they are presented to us. "Circumcision is nothing, and uncircumcision is nothing."* The Gentiles might keep the law if they chose; but they must not be forced to do it. Their observance of its ceremonies might be a very proper and becoming thing, if prompted by motives of expediency and charity, and accompanied with a clear conviction of its non-essential character; but became wrong at once, if yielded to authority, either as an acknowledgment of the right of other men to dictate, or as a means of securing eternal life. Just so with ourselves. There are many things essentially indifferent, neither positively right nor wrong, in relation to which we must be guided by circumstances, with a view to expediency or usefulness. We may or may not do them. But if we do, it must be in the exercise of liberty. The interposition of any human authority, whether in the church or the world, to enforce them, entirely alters their character. The question becomes one of conscience, and resistance is a positive duty. It matters not, in itself, whether I shall perform a certain action or not; but it does matter greatly that I should vindicate my christian freedom. The thing I might do readily from my own free choice; but on compulsion, No! In yielding to authority I should be confessing the right of that authority to dictate, where Christ, my master, had left me at liberty, and the slightest compliance would open the way to all the tyranny of the worst spiritual despotism. Thus felt our Puritan and Nonconforming forefathers. As they were often wont to say, while the immediate dispute was about a vestment, a response, or a signature, trivial to insignificance in itself, the question Iwas that of FREEDOM. Their persecutors would scornfully allege, "Why, you have often done of your own free will much greater things than now we ask of you." "Yes," was the reply, "of our own free will, but at dictation, never!" A curious circumstance we heard of the other day, about a very small matter, well illustrates the principle. A sturdy Baptist minister of the old school was to preach at a chapel where new and (ecclesiastically speaking) fashionable customs prevail. "Will you wear the gown, Sir ?" asked a younger deacon. "Oh, yes, if you like, it does not matter to me," was the accommodating reply; and the investiture was about to commence, when another deacon came bustling in. "Mr. will put on the gown," remarked the younger gentleman. "Oh, yes, of course, of course he must," exclaimed the new-comer; "we could not think of any body preaching in our pulpit without the robes." The worthy minister paused a moment, then withdrawing his arm from the sleeve, rejoined, "I am sorry, Sir, to appear uncourteous, but if I must wear it, I shall certainly decline." How the difficulty was settled, we forget; but it is our impression, that as a compromise, the minister, gownless, was permitted to deliver his sermon from the reading-desk! We have chosen a trivial illustration in preference to those involving more important questions, because we do not wish to enter upon the discussion of particular and current controversies. Every reader will be able to apply the general doctrine to special cases within his own cognizance. The example of the apostle teaches us, "to become as a Jew to the Jews," not in unworthy submission, for "one is our master, even Christ,"-not in compromise of principle, for the Truth in everything must be our constant law,-but entirely in the voluntary sacrifice of things indifferent for the sake of peace, and in the surrender always of our own feelings, (when they are only feelings), that we may not wound the I Cor. vii. 19: mind or conscience of another. To sacrifice a principle for the sake of any body, is most wrong; to do violence to our feelings is often our duty: only we must be very careful, on the one hand, not to dignify our mere personal feelings with the name of principles, nor on the other, to treat our principles as if they were only feelings. Tales and Sketches. "MAKING FRIENDS BY THE MAMMON OF UNRIGHTEOUSNESS." BY MRS. H. B. STOWE. It was four o'clock in the afternoon of a dull winter day, that John sat in his counting-room. The sun had nearly gone down, and, in fact, it was already twilight beneath the shadows of the tall dusky stores, and the close, crooked streets of that quarter of Boston. Hardly light enough struggled through the dusky panes of the counting-house for John to read the entries in a much-thumbed memorandum - book, which he held in his hand. A small, thin boy, with a pale face and anxious expression, significant of delicacy of constitution and a too early acquaintance with want and sorrow, was standing by him, earnestly watching his motions. "Ah, yes, my boy," said John, as he at last shut up the memorandum-book. "Yes, I've got the place now; I'm apt to be forgetful about these things: come, now, let us go. How is it? Haven't you brought the basket?" "No, Sir," said the boy, timidly. "The grocer said he'd let mother have a quarter for it, and she thought she'd sell it." "That's bad," said John, as he went on tying his throat with a long comforter of some yards in extent; and as he continued this operation, he abstractedly repeated, "That's bad, that's bad," till the poor little boy looked quite dismayed, and began to think that somehow his mother had been dreadfully out of the way. She didn't want to send for help so long as she had anything she could sell," said the little boy in a deprecating tone. "Oh, yes, quite right," said John, taking from a pigeon-hole in the desk a large pocket-book, and beginning to turn it over; and, as before, abstractedly repeating, "Quite right! quite right!" till the little boy became reassured, and began to think, although he didn't know why, that his mother had done something quite meritorious. "Well," said John, after he had taken several bills from the pocket-book, and transferred them to a wallet which he put into his pocket, "now we're ready, my boy." But first he stopped to lock up his desk, and then he said abstractedly to himself, "I wonder if I hadn't better take a few tracts." Now, it is to be confessed that this John whom we have introduced to our reader, was in his way quite an oddity. He had a number of singular, little penchants and peculiarities quite his own-such as a> passion for poking among dark alleys, at all sorts of seasonable and unseasonable hours; fishing out troops of dirty, neglected children; and fussing about generally in the community, until he could get them into schools, or otherwise provided for. He always had in his pocket-book a note of some dozen poor widows who wanted tea, sugar, or candles, or other things, such as poor widows always will be wanting. And then he had a most extraordinary talent for finding out all the sick strangers that lay in out-of-the-way upper rooms in hotels, who, everybody knows, have no business to get sick in such places, unless they have money enough to pay their expenses, which they never do. Besides this, all John's kinsmen and cousins, to the third, fourth, and fortieth remove, were always writing him letters, which, among other pleasing items, generally contained the intelligence that a few hundred dollars were just then exceedingly necessary to save them from utter ruin, and they knew of nobody else to whom to look for it. And then John was up to his throat in subscriptions to every charitable society; had a hand in building all the churches within a hundred miles; occasionally gave four or five thousand dollars to a college; and offered to be one of six to raise ten thousand dollars for some benevolent purpose, and when four of the six backed out, quietly paid the balance himself, and said no more |