Look at those two men who went up to the temple to pray. That bold, proud, well-dressed Pharisee, satisfied with himself, stands in the center of the court and prays with well-made sentences, and surely those who look upon him will say, “There is the gentleman of the age;” but as Jesus comes into the hall, he points to that plainly-clad publican who stands with trembling knees and bowed head in that obscure corner near the door, and prays, in broken words, for mercy, and Jesus tells us that this one, “rather than the other,” is the Christian gentleman. On that wild and rocky path that leads from Jerusalem to Jericho lies a man near that dark pass in the mountains who has been left “half dead” by robbers. That well-dressed Levite who looked upon him a few moments ago, and found that he was one of the common people, and passed on, showed his breeding as a gentleman in saving himself from the touch of such a man; that priest, who glances scornfully upon the penniless sufferer as he passes by on the other side, shows that he is of high blood that must not be contaminated with the common crowd. Surely, they are gentlemen complete! But Jesus, by some strange oversight of their Jewish rank and fine clothes, points us to that low-born Samaritan, bending over the suffering man, softly wiping the ugly clots of blood, binding up his wounds, turning back from his journey, mounting him on his own beast, and paying for him at the inn, and tells us that this Samaritan is the only gentleman of the three. In the public gardens of Boston you may see his monument, on a thousand hospitals you may see his name. Where are the monuments and hospitals that honor the manhood of the priest and Levite? Around that box at the temple into which the people drop their gifts of charity, you can hear the rustle of silks and the twinkle of jewelry, as those well-dressed ladies drop in their gold; but how they knit their brows and draw back their dresses as that poor widow, in her treadbare garments, with her poorly-dressed little one in her arms, crowds up toward the box and drops in those two mites. No one thanks her, although it is “all her living;” but Christ tells us that this poor, meek, gentle giver is a lady “more than they all.” Ten lepers cried out for help, as Jesus passed by. “As they went” in the path which he had pointed out, “they were cleansed.” Those who were Jews went on their way. One, a low Samaritan, came back, and on his knees uttered his thanks. Was not “this stranger” a gentleman above all the other nine? If you had inquired in the streets of Jerusalem, in the Bible days, for their best specimen of a gentleman, they would have shown you a man with a long beard, and tall cap, with a breastplate full of precious stones and garments of richest silk and purple, and said, “This is he.” But Christ took a little playful child from the crowd that gathered about him, and set him in their midst as their model, and said, “Except ye become as little children,” &c. Gentleness is the first qualification of a gentleman. In regard to “malice, be ye children.”—Cor. of Zion’s Herald.