GAIL HAMILTON belongs to the school of practical Christians, and believes largely in a religion made for this world. She contends that the usual tests of Christian character to which appeal is made in the pulpit and in religious literature are too internal. In her recent work entitled, "Stumbling Blocks," she presents the following test questions:
If you wish to know whether you are a Christian, inquire of yourself whether, in and for the love of God, you seek to make happy those about you by smiles and pleasant sayings. Is it a matter of concernment, when you sit down to your breakfast, to say a bright word of sympathy, or endearment, or playfulness, or cheer, to your wife, your son, your daughter? Do you give Tommy a preliminary toss as you place him in his high chair, or do you praise Kitty's first awkward attempt to smooth her own hair? Do you notice the little arrangements that have been made for your comfort and convenience? Do you compliment the cook on the nice coffee, or the light buckwheat cakes, or the beautifully-brown toast which she sets before you—particularly if the cook bears your own name? When the cat puts up her soft paw to remind you that she is there, does your hand slide down to rub her fur, and thus make her happier for your thought of her—or, if a law of the Medes and Persians forbids her the dining room, do you throw her a bit of bread to console her exile? Is the faithful dog rewarded by his share, not only of food, but of favoritism? If you have yourself an unconquerable aversion to cats and dogs, do you still see to it that their lives are not a burden to them? If you meet a child crying in the street, do you endeavor to console him? Do you ever buy a penny's worth of candy for the ragged boy who is looking at it with eager eyes through the shop window on Christmas eve? Do you take pains now and then to speak a cheery word to the widow whose only son has gone on a long sea voyage? As your sons and daughters approach maturity, does their obedience and affection increase or diminish? Do they go out from your house as from a prison, or from a home, with eager feet indeed, but with a tender lingering at the last? When you come into the house, do you bring sunshine with you? If there is a cloud on your brow, do your family seem more anxious to dissipate it, or to get out of your way? If your sons see you on the other side of the street, do they run over to join you, or do they turn down an alley to avoid you, or keep on the other side till they are obliged to cross? Do the clerks in your warehouse, the carpenters who are building your house, the Irishmen who are laying your pipes, the plowman who is furrowing your land, the gardener who is pruning your trees, like to have you pass by, for the pleasantness of your manner in commending their labor, or the courteousness with which you listen to their complaints or requests, or the quiet consideration with which you suggest alterations and improvements? Do mothers like to have their sons work on your farm during the summer months, and do the boys like to come? In short, are you a comfortable person to live with? Are you pleasant to have about?
We like these questions, and they have their important place in the Christian life; but still they remind us of the mint, anise, and cummin, of which the Saviour said, "These ye ought to have done, and the others not to have left undone."