CULTIVATION OF A DEVOTIONAL SPIRIT.
By Hannah More
To maintain a devotional spirit, two things are especially necessary—habitually to cultivate the disposition, and habitually to avoid whatever is unfavorable to it. Frequent retirement and recollection are indispensable, together with such a general course of reading, as, if it do not actually promote the spirit we are endeavoring to maintain, shall never be hostile to it. We should avoid as much as in us lies, all such society, all such amusements as excite tempers, which it is the daily business of a Christian to subdue, and all those feelings which it is his constant duty to suppress. And here may we venture to observe, that if some things which are apparently innocent, and do not assume an alarming aspect, or bear a dangerous character; things which the generality of decorous people affirm (how truly we know not) to be safe for them; yet if we find that these things stir up in us improper propensities, if they awaken thoughts which ought not to be excited, if they abate our love for religious exercises, or infringe on our time for performing them, if they make spiritual concerns appear insipid, if they wind our heart a little more about the world; in short, if we have formerly found them injurious to our own souls, then let no example or persuasion, no belief of their alleged innocence, no plea of their perfect safety, tempt us to indulge in them. It matters little to our security what they are to others. Our business is with ourselves. Our responsibility is on our own heads. Others cannot know the side on which we are assailable. Let our own unbiased judgment determine our opinion, let our own experience decide for our own conduct. In speaking of books we cannot forbear noticing that very prevalent sort of reading which is little less productive of evil, little less prejudicial to moral and mental improvement than that which carries a more formidable appearance. We cannot confine our censure to those more corrupt writings which deprave the heart, debauch the imagination and poison the principles. Of these the turpitude is so obvious that no caution on this head, it is presumed, can be necessary. But if justice forbids us to confound the insipid with the mischievous, the idle with the vicious, and the frivolous with the profligate, still we can only admit of shades, deep shades we allow, of difference. These works, if comparatively harmless, yet debase the taste, slacken the intellectual nerve, let down the understanding, set the fancy loose, and send it gadding among low and mean objects. They not only run away with the time which should be given to better things, but gradually destroy all taste for better things. They sink the mind to their own standard and give it a sluggish reluctance, we had almost said a moral incapacity for everything above their level. The mind, by long habit of stooping, loses its erectness, and yields to its degradation. It becomes so low and narrow by the littleness of the things which engage it that it requires a painful effort to lift itself high enough, or to open itself wide enough to embrace great and noble objects. The appetite is vitiated. Excess instead of producing a surfeit, by weakening the digestion only induces a loathing for stronger nourishment. The faculties which might have been expanding in works of science, or soaring in the contemplation of genius, become satisfied with the impertinences of the most ordinary fiction, lose their relish for the severity of truth, the elegance of taste, and the soberness of religion. Lulled in the torpor of repose, the intellect dozes, and enjoys in its waking dream— All the wild trash of sleep without the rest. In avoiding books which excite the passions, it would seem strange to include even some devotional works. Yet such as merely kindle warm feelings are not always the safest. Let us rather prefer those which, while they tend to raise a devotional spirit, awaken the affections without disordering them, which, while they elevate the desires, purify them, which show us our own nature and lay open its corruptions. Such as show us the malignity of sin, the deceitfulness of our hearts, the feebleness of our best resolutions; such as teach us to pull off the mask from the fairest appearances, and discover every hiding place where some lurking evil would conceal itself; such as show us not what we appear to others, but what we really are; such as co-operating with our interior feelings and showing us our natural state, point out our absolute need of a Redeemer, lead us to seek to him for pardon from a conviction that there is no other refuge, no other salvation. Let us be conversant with such writings as teach us that while we long to obtain the remission of our transgressions, we must not desire the remission of our duties. Let us seek for such a Saviour as will not only deliver us from the punishment of sin, but from its dominion also. And let us ever bear in mind that the end of prayer is not answered when the prayer is finished. We should regard prayer as a means to a farther end. The act of prayer is not sufficient; we must cultivate a spirit of prayer. And though when the actual devotion is over, we cannot amid the distractions of company and business always be thinking of heavenly things, yet the desire, the frame, the propensity, the willingness to return to them, we must, however difficult, endeavor to maintain. The proper temper for prayer should precede the act. The disposition should be wrought in the mind before the exercise is begun. To bring a proud temper to an humble prayer, a luxurious habit to a self-denying prayer, or a worldly disposition to a spiritually minded prayer, is a positive anomaly. A habit is more powerful than an act, and a previously indulged temper during the day will not, it is to be feared, be fully counteracted by the exercise of a few minutes' devotion at night. Prayer is designed for a perpetual renovation of the motives to virtue; if therefore the cause is not followed by its consequence, a consequence inevitable but for the impediments we bring to it, we rob our nature of its highest privilege, and run the danger of incurring a penalty where we are looking for a blessing. That the habitual tendency of the life should be the preparation for the stated prayer, is naturally suggested to us by our blessed Redeemer in his sermon on the mount. He announced the precepts of holiness, and their corresponding beatitudes; he gave the spiritual exposition of the law, the directions for alms-giving, the exhortation to love our enemies, nay, the essence and spirit of the whole decalogue, previous to his delivering his own divine prayer as a pattern for ours'. Let us learn from this that the preparation of prayer is therefore to live in all those pursuits which we may safely beg of God to bless, and in a conflict with all those temptations into which we pray not to be led. If God be the center to which our hearts are tending, every line in our lives must meet in him. With this point in view, there will be a harmony between our prayers and our practice, a consistency between devotion and conduct which will make every part turn to this one end, bear upon this one point. For the beauty of the Christian58scheme consists not in parts (however good in themselves) which tend to separate views, and lead to different ends; but it arises from its being one entire, uniform, connected plan, "compacted by that which every joint supplieth," and of which all the parts terminate in this one grand ultimate point. The design of prayer therefore as we before observed, is not merely to make us devout while we are engaged in it, but that its odor may be diffused through all the intermediate spaces of the day, enter into all its occupations, duties and tempers. Nor must its results be partial or limited to easy and pleasant duties, but extend to such as are less alluring. When we pray, for instance, for our enemies, the prayer must be rendered practical, must be made a means of softening our spirit and cooling our resentment toward them. If we deserve their enmity, the true spirit of prayer will put us upon endeavoring to cure the fault which has excited it. If we do not deserve it, it will put us on striving for a placable temper, and we shall endeavor not to let slip so favorable an occasion of cultivating it. There is no such softener of animosity, no such soother of resentment, no such allayer of hatred, as sincere cordial prayer. It is obvious that the precept to pray without ceasing can never mean to enjoin a continual course of actual prayer. But while it more directly enjoins us to embrace all proper occasions of performing this sacred duty, or rather of claiming this valuable privilege, so it plainly implies that we should try to keep up constantly that sense of the divine presence which shall maintain the disposition. In order to this we should inure our minds to reflection; we should encourage serious thoughts. A good thought barely passing through the mind will make little impression on it. We must arrest it, constrain it to remain with us, expand, amplify, and, as it were, take it to pieces. It must be distinctly unfolded, and carefully examined, or it will leave no precise idea; it must be fixed and incorporated, or it will produce no practical effect. We must not dismiss it till it has left some trace on the mind, till it has made some impression on the heart. On the other hand, if we give the reins to a loose ungoverned fancy, at other times, if we abandon our minds to frivolous thoughts, if we fill them with corrupt images, if we cherish sensual ideas during the rest of the day, can we expect that none of these images will intrude, that none of these impressions will be revived, but that "the temple into which foul things" have been invited, will be cleansed at a given moment; that worldly thoughts will recede and give place at once to pure and holy thoughts? Will that spirit grieved by impurity, or resisted by levity, return with his warm beams, and cheering influences to the contaminated mansion from which he has been driven out? Is it wonderful if, finding no entrance into a heart filled with vanity he should withdraw himself?—We cannot, in retiring into our closets, change our natures as we do our clothes. The disposition we carry thither will be likely to remain with us. We have no right to expect that a new temper will meet us at the door. We can only hope that the spirit we bring thither will be cherished and improved. It is not easy, rather it is not possible to graft genuine devotion on a life of an opposite tendency; nor can we delight ourselves regularly for a few stated moments in that God whom we have not been serving during the day. We may indeed to quiet our conscience, take up the employment of prayer, but cannot take up the state of mind which will make the employment beneficial to ourselves, or the prayer acceptable to God, if all the previous day we have been careless of ourselves and unmindful of our Maker. They will not pray differently from the rest of the world who do not live differently. What a contradiction is it to lament the weakness, the misery, and the corruption of our nature in our devotions, and then to rush into a life though not perhaps of vice, yet of indulgences calculated to increase that weakness, to inflame those corruptions, and to lead to that misery! There is either no meaning in our prayers, or no sense in our conduct. In the one we mock God, in the other we deceive ourselves. Will not he who keeps up an habitual intercourse with his Maker, who is vigilant in thought, self-denying in action, who strives to keep his heart from wrong desires, his mind from vain imaginations, and his lips from idle words, bring a more prepared spirit, a more collected mind, be more engaged, more penetrated, more present to the occasion? Will he not feel more delight in this devout exercise, reap more benefit from it, than he who lives at random, prays from custom, and who though he dares not intermit the form, is a stranger to its spirit. "O God, my heart is ready," cannot be lawfully uttered by him who is no more prepared. We speak not here to the self-sufficient formalist, or the careless profligate. Among those whom we now take the liberty to address, are to be found, especially in the higher class of females, the amiable and the interesting, and in many respects, the virtuous and correct; characters so engaging, so evidently made for better things, so capable of reaching high degrees of excellence, so formed to give the tone to Christian practice, as well as to fashion; so calculated to give a beautiful impression of that religion which they profess without sufficiently adorning; which they believe without fairly exemplifying; that we cannot forbear taking a tender interest in their welfare, we cannot forbear breathing a fervent prayer, that they may yet reach the elevation for which they were intended; that they may hold out a uniform and consistent pattern of "whatever things are pure, honest, just, lovely, and of good report." This the Apostle goes on to intimate can only be done by THINKING ON THESE THINGS. Things can only influence our practice as they engage our attention. Would not then a confirmed habit of serious thought tend to correct that inconsideration, which we are willing to hope, more than want of principle, lies at the bottom of the inconsistency we are lamenting? If, as it is generally allowed, the great difficulty of our spiritual life is to make the future predominate over the present, do we not by the conduct we are regretting aggravate what it is in our power to diminish? Miscalculation of the relative value of things is one of the greatest errors of our moral life. We estimate them in an inverse proportion to their value as well as to their duration; we lavish earnest and durable thoughts on things so trifling that they deserve little regard, so brief that they "perish with the using," while we bestow only slight attention on things of infinite worth, only transient thoughts on things of eternal duration. Those who are so far conscientious as not to intermit a regular course of devotion, and who yet allow themselves at the same time to go on in a course of amusements which excite a directly opposite spirit, are inconceivably augmenting their own difficulties. They are eagerly heaping up fuel in the day on the fire which they intend to extinguish in the evening; they are voluntarily adding to the temptations against which they mean to request grace to struggle. To acknowledge at the same time that we find it hard to serve God as we ought, and yet to be systematically indulging habits which must naturally increase the difficulty, makes our characters almost ridiculous, while it renders our duty almost impracticable. While we make our way more difficult by those very indulgencies with which we think to cheer and refresh it, the determined Christian becomes his own pioneer; he makes his path easy by voluntarily clearing it of the obstacles which impede his progress. These habitual indulgencies seem a contradiction to that obvious law, that one virtue always involves another; for we cannot labor after any grace, that of prayer, for instance, without resisting whatever is opposite to it. If then we lament that it is so hard to serve God, let us not by our conduct furnish arguments against ourselves; for, as if the difficulty were not great enough in itself, we are constantly heaping up mountains in our way by indulging in such pursuits and passions as make a small labor an insurmountable one. But we may often judge better of our state by the result, than by the act of prayer. Our very defects, our coldness, deadness, wanderings, may leave more contrition on the soul than the happiest turn of thought. The feeling of our wants, the confession of our sins, the acknowledgment of our dependence, the renunciation of ourselves, the supplication for mercy, the application to "the fountain opened for sin," the cordial entreaty for the aid of the Spirit, the relinquishment of our own will, resolutions of better obedience, petitions that these resolutions may be directed and sanctified, these are the subjects in which the supplicant should be engaged, by which his thoughts should be absorbed. Can they be so absorbed if many of the intervening hours are passed in pursuits of a totally different complexion? pursuits which raise the passions which we are seeking to allay? Will the cherished vanities go at our bidding? Will the required dispositions come at our calling? Do we find our tempers so obedient, our passions so obsequious in the other concerns of life? If not, what reason have we to expect their obsequiousness in this grand concern? We should therefore endeavor to believe as we pray, to think as we pray, to feel as we pray, to act as we pray. Prayer must not be a solitary, independent exercise; but an exercise interwoven with many, and inseparably connected with that golden chain of Christian duties, of which, when so connected, it forms one of the most important links. Business, however, must have its period as well as devotion. We were sent into this world to act as well as to pray, active duties must be performed as well as devout exercises. Even relaxation must have its interval; only let us be careful that the indulgence of the one do not destroy the effect of the other, that our pleasures do not encroach on the time or deaden the spirit of our devotions; let us be careful that our cares, occupations, and amusements may be always such that we may not be afraid to implore the divine blessing on them; this is the criterion of their safety and of our duty. Let us endeavor that in each, in all, one continually growing sentiment and feeling of loving, serving and pleasing God, maintain its predominant station in the heart. An additional reason why we should live in the perpetual use of prayer, seems to be that our blessed Redeemer after having given both the example and the command while on earth, condescends still to be our unceasing intercessor in heaven. Can we ever cease petitioning for ourselves when we believe that he never ceases interceding for us? If we are so unhappy as now to find little pleasure in this holy exercise, that however is so far from being a reason for discontinuing it, that it affords the strongest argument for perseverance. That which was at first a form, will become a pleasure; that which was a burden will become a privilege; that which we impose upon ourselves as a medicine, will become necessary as an ailment, and desirable as a gratification. That which is now short and superficial will become copious and solid. The chariot wheel is warmed by its own motion. Use will make that easy which was at first painful. That which is once become easy will soon be rendered pleasant. Instead of repining at the performance we shall be unhappy at the omission. When a man recovering from sickness attempts to walk he does not discontinue the exercise because he feels himself weak, nor even because the effort is painful. He rather redoubles his exertion. It is from his perseverance that he looks for strength. An additional turn every day diminishes his repugnance, augments his vigor, improves his spirit. That effort which was submitted to because it was salutary, is continued because the feeling of renovated strength renders it delightful.—Hannah More. HERE I find, what long I've sought,
Cooling draught, with healing fraught,
Flowing free from fount divine,—
"I have called thee, thou art mine." Jesus, grant thy kind control,
Visit, cleanse, and make me whole;
Bid me not this pledge resign,
"I have called thee, thou art mine." While I read thy death for me,
Through my tears of love, I see
This, the sweetest word of thine,
"I have called thee, thou art mine." If I weakly dare to sigh
For earth's pomp and vanity,
Thou dost speak—no more I pine,
"I have called thee, thou art mine." Wanderer oft, do I desire,
Israel's token, cloud of fire?
This I have, my constant sign,
"I have called thee, thou art mine." Has my spirit faithless grown?
One assurance, one alone,
Bids me all my fears resign,
"I have called thee, thou art mine." When, with God's elect, I stand,
Sword of truth in ready hand,
On my banner's folds shall shine,
"I have called thee, thou art mine." At thy sacramental board,
Added joy these words afford,
While I taste the bread and wine,
"I have called thee, thou art mine." If death, at the outer gate,
Summons brings, for which I wait,
Let me hear from lips divine,
"I have called thee, thou art mine." PUNCTUATION OF THE BIBLE.
THE punctuation of the Bible is modern. Taylor, the celebrated editor of Calmet’s Dictionary, says: “It is still much to be wished that in this respect the Scriptures were carefully revised.” Dr. Horne asserts, as clearly proved, “that there was no regular or accustomed system of punctuation in use in the fourth century. The majority of the points or stops now in use are unquestionably of modern date.” “At the invention of printing, the editors placed the points arbitrarily, probably (Michaelis thinks) without bestowing the necessary attention; and Stevens in particular, it is well known, waived the points in every edition.” In Luke xxii, 46, it is stated that our Saviour in the garden of Gethsemane, came to his disciples, and “found them sleeping for sorrow, and said unto them, Why sleep ye? Rise and pray.” &c. “And while he yet spake, lo, Judas, one of the twelve, came,” &c. In Matt. xxvi, 45, the same event is related, in the same connection; but in the English version, the question is changed into a command to do the very thing to which he objected. “Sleep on now and take your rest,” &c. “Rise let us be going,” &c. “And while he yet spake, lo, Judas, one of the twelve came.” By changing what is evidently an interrogation into a command, the translators make our Lord give two opposite commands at the same time. “Sleep on now,” “Rise,” “Take your rest,” “let us be going.” All these discrepancies would be avoided by making the first a question: Sleep ye on now and take your rest? or, Do ye now sleep and take your rest? “Now is my soul troubled, and what shall I say? Father save me from this hour? But for this cause came I unto this hour.” This is consistent. He is talking to his disciples, and inquires regarding the anguish which is about to overwhelm him. What shall I say? Shall I say, ‘Father, save me from this hour?’ But I cannot say that, because ‘for this cause came I unto this hour.’” In the common version, by changing what is evidently an iuquiry into a prayer, the Lord is made to ask for that which he says would be inconsistent with the whole object of his life. Many inaccuracies in punctuation have been pointed out by commentators, but it occupies so large a space to explain any one of the cases, and to show the reasons which render the correction necessary, that we forbear to bring forward any more. It is but justice, however, to say that the changes needed in this department are fewer than might reasonably have been expected, considering that no thorough revision has been made for so long a period of time, during which scholars and theologians have had opportunity to collate scripture with scripture, and discover the corrections needed in one place by comparison with others. It was about the time of the passover. The soft airs of the vernal equinox began to breathe from the plains of Sharon, laden with the aroma of the young vines, and of the opening roses. On the silent city falls the moonlight, making Moriah's templed top to tower like a mountain of silver above the greenth of the vale Kedron. A few lone women are grinding their evening meal in the doorways here and there; a Pharisee that has lingered long at his vespers (a Papist before the Papacy) is hastening homewards; a belated fisherman from the Jordan is driving his beast toward the city gates to get outside them ere they are bolted for the night. The Roman sentinel on the temple wall calls the watch-word All's well. The evening glides on. Through the silent street—gathering his robe up close about him to conceal his face and keeping out of the moonlight, a ruler of the Jews passes stealthily along. Into a retired court—out of the aristocratic quarter—and hard by where God's poor are crowded close together, the ruler knocks at a lowly door. A plain, serene personage puts forth his hand to take the ruler's jewelled fingers and a rich turban bows low to the floor in reverence. "Rabbi," says the Pharisee to the meek Nazarene in his coarse raiment—"Rabbi, we know that thou art a teacher come from God, for no man can do these miracles that thou doest except God be with him." Without waiting for any further preliminaries; without wasting time in idle talk, the omniscient teacher proves his divine wisdom by the solemn declaration, "Verily, verily, I say unto thee, except a man be born again he cannot see the kingdom of God." Surprise steals over the ruler's face, as he fixes his keen Jewish eyes on the Master. "How can a man be born when he is old? Can he enter the second time into his mother's womb and be born?" The poor pitiful idea of a second bodily birth enters into the mind of Nicodemus. He cannot get hold of this spiritual new birth. It is an enigma. Christ patiently explains it to his anxious inquirer. * The Pharisee listens to it all. We may imagine that the turban was laid aside and the eager face bent to catch the words of life from the lips of the Nazarene. Evening wears on toward midnight ere Nicodemus puts on his sandals to depart. He rises to go away a wiser man. He goes away to remember the solemn and weighty teachings—not to forget. He goes away convinced, but not yet converted. He goes away saved out of Phariseeism, though not yet saved into Christianity. Already is the hand of Christ upon his heart; and when we afterwards see him rising up in the Sanhedrim to demand a fair treatment of the persecuted Saviour, and at last bringing sweet spices to embalm the mangled form just rescued from the cross, we only see the glorious outcome of that evening with Jesus Christ. Perhaps some reader of this sketch is now sitting where Nicodemus sat that night—on the seat of honest inquiry. He has sat there long already, but delay has not improved his guilty heart. He knows the theory of salvation, but the practical steps he does not get hold of. My friend, you may perish in that very seat. You may sink to the pit from the place of the inquirer, if you make it too the place of the palterer, and the trifler with the Holy Spirit. What you want is action. You have waited long enough. Go straightway to Christ. Lay hold of the first duty to which conscience calls and do it. Begin at once to serve God. If your will rebels, pray God to subdue your stubborn will. If Satan hinder, "resist the devil, and he will flee from you." If business beguile you, set your face like a flint to the one great business of securing the salvation of your soul. The very attempt to serve God will bring out the wickedness and the weakness of your heart, as no other process possibly can. But try it. Every attempt will bring you nearer to Christ. Persevere! Like Bunyan's pilgrim, you will find that the way to heaven "lies through this very valley." Struggle on! And when you can perform one solitary act, however humble, from no other motive than the glory of God—when you can renounce a single sin from no other motive than honoring the Saviour, then have you experienced a new birth; then will your feet be safely planted in that straight path that leads to life eternal. DIVISION OF THE SACRED SCRIPTURES INTO CHAPTERS AND VERSES.
ThE division of the Scriptures into chapters and verses is of comparatively modern origin, being generally referred to the thirteenth and the fifteenth century of the Christian era. “The very great advantage it affords for facilitating references to particular passages, has caused it to be retained, though much to the injury of its interpretation, as many passages are now severed that ought to be united, and vice versa.” It is often subversive of the sense, and far more frequently breaks in upon the necessary connection of historical facts or arguments. A few instances out of great numbers which might be collected, will demonstrate this. Joshua, chapters five and six, are so separated that very few persons observe that the captain of the Lord's host continues his conversation with Joshua, and that the first verse of the sixth chapter is a parenthesis. Ezra vii, 12 and 13.—The close of one verse and the beginning of the next, if not separated, would read, “Perfect peace, and at such a time I make a decree.” It now stands thus: “Perfect peace and at such a time.” Thus nonsense is made of what otherwise would appear to be connected reasoning. Artaxerxes made a decree in a season of perfect peace, which he intimates would not have been so proper at a period of civil commotion or war. 1 Cor. xiith, xiiith, and xivth chapters.—The separation of these three chapters prevents many readers from following the reasoning of the Apostle. He says:— “Covet the best gifts, and yet show I unto you a more excellent way. Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels and have not charity, I am nothing,” &c. “And now abideth faith, hope and charity, these three, but the greatest of these is charity. Follow after charity and desire spiritual gifts.” By interposing two artificial divisions, and commencing a new chapter with “Though I speak,” and another with “Follow after charity,” the connection is entirely broken, and the ordinary reader is precluded from understanding the argument. Every student of the Bible will recall numerous instances of this character. Indeed, it is so common that those who would know the truth, are obliged generally as they read, to disregard these divisions into chapters and verses. Everything that is possible ought to be done to present the thought to the mind of the reader as it was communicated by the Holy Spirit. Whatever of human invention breaks the argument, or obscures the sense, should be avoided. Some of the rarest beauties of thought and expression are entirely destroyed by the present system of breaking up a letter from an apostle into chapters and verses, which he never imagined, and could not have approved. Take, for example, the letter of Paul the apostle to the Philippians. How beautiful and touching, read as a letter! How broken and disfigured, cut up into chapters and verses! Don't you know that multitudes of human beings turn away from the many blessings of their lot, and dwell and brood upon its worries? Don't you know that multitudes persistently look away from the numerous pleasant things they might contemplate, and look fixedly, and almost constantly at painful and disagreeable things? Now I put it to every sensible reader, whether there be not a great deal too much of this kind of thing. Are there not families that never spend a quiet evening together without embittering it by raking up every unpleasant subject in their lot and history? There are folks who both in their own case, and that of others, seem to find a strange satisfaction in sticking the thorn in the hand further in; even in twisting the dagger in the heart. Their lot has its innumerable blessings, but they will not look at these. Let the view around in a hundred directions be ever so charming, they cannot be got to turn their mental view in one of these. They persist in keeping nose and eyes at the moral pig-sty. A Warrant Before Undertaking Work
NEVER undertake any work until you have your warrant; or you will find the expense to be heavy, and the labor a task. David would have built a temple, but he was forbidden. An exhaustless theme is opened before us in the subject which we have chosen as the basis of a few brief thoughts; but it is one from which, though much treated upon already, we trust the reader will never be inclined to turn away from lack of interest. No grander theme than the glorious advent of the Saviour to this fallen world can occupy the thoughts and pens of the inhabitants of earth. No subject has greater claims upon the earnest and unabating consideration of all classes; and none especially greater claims upon us who have professedly come out from the ordinary pursuits and calculations of life, and, before the world, are waiting and watching for our Lord's return. Have we come thus far in vain? Have we been deluded into the expectation of that which we have no warrant to expect? Have we run wild in speculation upon the word of God? or have we been guided thus far by declarations of truth and soberness? have we been building upon the rock? and are we moving on to the certain and full fruition of our hope? Upon all these questions we certainly cannot too often re-assure ourselves, and renew our faith; and hence a reconsideration of the evidences of our position, some of which we here propose to notice, can never be amiss. As we toil "in this wilderness state," feeling the ills of mortality pressing heavily upon us, we console ourselves with the thought that the Life-giver is soon to appear, when this corruptible shall put on incorruption, and this mortal shall be clothed with immortality. And when poverty and oppression, persecution and peril are sore upon us, we look away, as our only hope, to the unfading crown, the enduring treasure, the victory and the rest, to which the righteous Judge shall introduce us, in the day of his coming and his kingdom. The question is not now whether it is strange that we should desire this coming and kingdom; but, are we wrong in looking for it? Is the world still destined to continue in its wonted course for centuries to come? Might we as well join with the worldling in his temporal schemes, in his plans and calculations for a distant day? Are our sacrifices uncalled for and vain, and our hope doomed to disappointment? Let not these questions be understood as designed to imply doubt, but only to excite inquiry. That we do well to come out from the world, that our expectations are not vain, but that the coming of the Lord draweth nigh, yea, is even at the doors, we shall now endeavor to show; not from a desire to have it so, in itself considered, however strong that desire may be, but because we so understand the word of the Lord to teach. We desire our Lord to come, because we love him; we believe that he will come because his word so declares, and we know that sooner heaven and earth would pass away than one jot or one tittle of that word would fail. The first passage to which we call attention, is one which we ever read with fresh delight. It is one which must electrify with joy every heart wherein the love of Christ is found. It was spoken under circumstances which cannot fail to give a correct and vivid idea of the nature and manner of the return of our blessed Saviour; and it contains an enunciation of the truth so clear and forcible that it cannot well be evaded or ignored. We refer to the testimony of the angels to the men of Galilee as they stood gazing up into heaven to catch the last glimpse of their ascending Lord. When Jesus had finished the work which he had personally to accomplish on the earth, he led his disciples out as far as Bethany, bestowed upon them his parting blessing, and was taken up into heaven. And while in mute astonishment they gazed steadfastly up towards the cloud which had received him out of their sight, two men in white apparel stood by bearing to them the very promise which was best adapted to their situation in that hour of separation and trial—a promise, too, which has proved of equal comfort to every saint from that day to this, who has mourned the long-continued separation of the church from her beloved Lord. They testified as follows: "Ye men of Galilee, why stand ye gazing up into heaven? This same Jesus which is taken up from you into heaven shall so come in like manner as ye have seen him go into heaven." Gracious words! worthy to be graved in letters of gold; worthy to be worn as "frontlets between the eyes," and written upon every door-post, as no doubt, they are deeply enshrined in every Christian heart. Three points are at once made clear by this testimony; namely, (1.) the fact that the Lord will come again. Said the angels (and their testimony will at once be conceded as good authority) he shall come. (2.) The nature of that coming; personal and real, not spiritual: "this same Jesus." (3.) The manner of that coming; visible in clouds of heaven, as they had "seen him go into heaven." Bodily, personally, and visibly he ascended. The transaction was accomplished in the light of day; and the disciples beheld him with their literal eyes, till a literal cloud hid him from their view. In like manner will he come again, personally and visibly in the clouds of heaven; and eyes that would then gladly turn from the sight, and seek to be buried by the rocks and mountains from his presence, will be compelled to look upon his majesty and glory. Rev. vi, 16. May it rather be ours, dear reader, in that dread day, to be ready to exclaim with all the assurance of a heart at peace with him, Lo, this is our God, we have waited for him and he will save us. Isa. xxv, 9.