life had been an arduous one. As lawgiver, judge, leader, his had not been an enviable lot. The fickleness and wicked perversity of the people especially had tried him sore. It was, indeed, this that occasioned the very sin for which he was now to die. "Meekest of men" as he was, it was they who goaded him on to petulance and presumption. All this is now past. He has left it down in the plains below. And, if he could have taken a nearer view of the land that looked so lovely as it lay stretched out before him, he would have seen that which completely wiped out all its seeming beauty. Perhaps he glanced at the Dead Sea beneath, and was reminded of the terrible wickedness of the Cities of the Plain that were buried beneath its waters. And, if he had descended to traverse the land itself, he would have found it still the scene of every abomination. He would have witnessed idolatry, and cruelty, and sin not to be named, offering one perpetual outrage to God and man. He would have seen the very babes that claim a mother's love offered up by mothers' hands at the shrine of an infamous idol-god. Whither, then, was he to go to escape the sin which had been the torment of his life? He has left it behind him; but there it is still rampant before him. On every hand he must encounter it, if he descend below. There is only one resource. If he would escape the abominable thing, he must stay where he is, all solitary and alone, cut off from the Society of man, or-he must die. And die he would, die a thousand times over, rather than meet again with the sin from which he has happily parted. To die was, to him, gain. So too is it, regarded simply as a release from sin, to every servant of God. (4.) Moses is about to enter a brighter world than that which he is leaving. He We need not curiously ask to what extent he was acquainted with those disclosures of futurity which belong more properly to the New Testament. Enough that he had already seen that which was far brighter and fairer than what he now looked upon. The glory of another world had been brought down to him on another mountain-top. The splendour of the Divine presence had flamed around him. had himself been transformed as he gazed upon it. Perhaps the same glorious vision was present to him now. This was enough to assure him that, somewhere in creation, there was a world irradiated and blessed by the perpetual presence of God. And could he doubt that he was going there? that He who had come so familiarly near to him in life Would admit him to His presence after death? We know what was reserve for him: perhaps he knew it too. It was a sublime death to die—all alone with God, who had come to take His servant to dwell with Him. in "So would I die," each one is ready to say, "my sins forgiven, my work done, God's presence with me, all sorrow past, all sin left behind, the infinite glory already dawning upon me!" And so shall it be, if our life resembles that of him who" endured, seeing Him who is invisible," who "esteemed the reproach of Christ greater riches than the treasures in Egypt," who "had respect to the recompense of the reward." Then will the Friend of all friends be with us at the lastthat glorious Being under whose touch "all things become new," sorrow is changed into joy, weakness into strength, despair into hope, the very curse into a blessing, death into life. THE DEACON'S FIRST AND LAST SERMON. FROM the deacon's standpoint the minister's salary was large, indeed 66 enormous," as the deacon used to say. In point of fact it was very moderate, being only four hundred and fifty dollars a year, and fifty of that to be taken in wood. But we must look at it from the deacon's point of view. He lived upon and cultivated a farm that furnished him and his family almost their entire living. When they wanted groceries, or any kind of store "goods," he would make a trade of butter or eggs, and supply their wants. This left him but very little to sell for cash, and consequently the good deacon handled but little actual money from one year's end to the other. Two hundred dollars, and sometimes fifty or seventy-five more, was all the real cash the deacon saw in the year; and his necessities not requiring this much, he usually had a considerable sum to his credit at the bank. How his minister, with not a large family, could spend four hundred dollars in cash every year, was more than he could possibly comprehend. "There must be,” he thought, "great extravagance somewhere." Scratching his head in a meditative sort of way, he went over to the "store," where he found a willing crowd to listen to his "view." In his opinion the minister did not earn his money. "What does he do, any way?" he said, addressing a neighbour who sat on a box, amusing himself by tossing up in his hand a couple of beans; "most of the time he wears his best clothes, and goes around a "And visitin' on the people, a-takin' tea course and This last remark, in the of time, got round to the minister's ears, and he determined, at the first opportunity, to give the Deacon a chance to try his "gifts." This soon occurred. Only a few weeks after the conversation referred to, it hap pened that the minister was called to be absent from home for a Sabbath; so, going over to the deacon's house early on Monday morning, he stated to him the necessities of the case, and insisted that he should pre pare a sermon and preach it in his pulpit the following Sabbath. A view of the deacon's face that oment would have been highly ausing. The first slight tinge of rprise soon gave way to an expreson of pride, confidence, and triumph ost refreshing to contemplate. aying hold of the lower of two but. ns that held his vest together, he mmenced twisting it, as was his stom when labouring under any eat mental excitement; he replied, Well, Dominie," this was a term always used on state occasions— f you really think I must, I will the best I can." And then he ided, after a moment's hesitation, I hain't got the books. I suppose ou will let me go into your study write; I'll go home for dinner." Oh, certainly," replied the domie, "and my wife will be pleased have you take dinner, and supper 0, with her, if you should not get rough before meal time.' Very good," said the deacon, P11 go over as soon as I get my rning work done.” An hour later, but yet early in the rning, found the deacon in the mister's study, preparing for work. had left word at home to keep me dinner for him, as he might ssibly not get his sermon written he expected, but still expressed he opinion that as he only had to rite enough to keep him reading alf an hour, he would, if he had no ad luck, get through by noon. То ive the deacon the credit due to im, it must be said that he did have, rith all his failings, a foundation of good sense in his mind, and was a pretty good judge of what a sermon ought to be. The minister's good wife had prepared everything to his hand. She had placed paper and ink on the table, together with a Bible, “Cruden's Concordance," and a most formidable pile of commentaries. The leacon proceeded at once to business. He stood a moment to take a survey of the situation, and then drew off is coat, and throwing it over a chair, rolled up his red flannel shirt sleeves with as much energy as though he was going to chop wood. Then he sat down at the table, counted out as many sheets of sermon paper as he thought he would use, and pronounced himself all ready. By this time it was a few minutes after nine o'clock. "Well," said he to himself, "the first thing, I suppose, ministers have to settle is, what text they__will select." Here he took up the Bible and glanced through it. There were plenty of texts there, beyond a question, but which one? This was a poser. Now he thought of a certain verse, now of another. He read part of a chapter here, and part of another there, and then lay back in his chair and thought; the lower button was suffering terribly. Here was a text that would do, but the minister had preached upon it lately; here was another that would make a splendid discourse, but the condition of the Church was not such as to warrant that kind of sermon. After a great deal of reflection both these were rejected. Just then, to the deacon's horror, the clock struck eleven. He caught up his pen and dipped it in the ink; but there was that stubborn fact, he must have a text. He wondered how ministers decided that very important matter. "Ah! now I have it," he exclaimed. "No, that won't do, either." The hour soon passed, and thus ended the first half-day. Promptly at twelve the minister's wife called him to dinner, and although much inclined not to, he went. "Well, Deacon, how do you get on? Have you settled upon your text yet?" said the lady, cheerfully, "that is one of my husband's greatest troubles. I have known him sometimes to spend a whole day in search of an appropriate text without coming to any decision." The deacon ate his dinner almost in silence. Some new and profound thoughts were working in his brain, and more than once he laid down his knife and fork and felt for that button. In the afternoon he was a little more successful. So much so that by night he had rejected every subject that he might possibly find interesting and useful but one, and to that one had attached a text, and actually written several pages of the sermon; but it was night, and he must go. The deacon's wife was a very shrewd, as well as a very good woman, and she knew how to do what very many women do not; she knew when not to talk. And this evening she judged from her husband's countenance was such a time. They went silent to bed. About half-past twelve o'clock she was awakened by the deacon asking her which of the two texts he repeated she thought would be best for a sermon. The next morning the deacon complained of a headache, affirming that he had not slept more than two hours all night. Nine o'clock found him hard at work again. But, alas! he soon came to fully realize what he had dimly suspected during the night-that he was not familiar with his subject. It was evident to him that he must do what he had so often heard the minister talk about; he must "read up;" must go through that pile of commentaries and post up on the subject. But where was the end? Book after book demanded his attention until the second sun actually went down upon his weary head and unfinished task. Once he was inclined to quote largely from these authorities, but a moment's reflection convinced him that that would not do. Then he tried to forget their words, and yet remember the substance of their ideas. But this he found a most difficult under taking. He ate no dinner, com plaining that his head ached too severely. At night he was tired, hungry, and disgusted with himself. After supper he sat before the fireplace for more than an hour, with his chin upon his hands and his eyes closed; he was thinking. His vest was held together by only one button-the lower one was gone. Finally he raised himself up slowly. A new light had shone into his eyes. 66 66 'Betsy," he said, "get me some paper and ink, and some opodeldoc for my back." She placed the writing materials before him, and a cup of liniment by the fire to warm. 'Here, John," he said, addressing his eldest boy who had just come in from the store where he was clerking; "here, John, you are better at writing than I am, and my hand is so tired I can hardly hold a pen any way; draw up a subscription paper for the minister to give him fifty dollars more a-year, and put your father down ten dollars,—yes, ten dollars, John. Betsy, it's ten dollars! If that man can get up a hundred of them sermons every year, he ought to have a thousand dollars. Betsy, a thousand dollars is a good deal of money; yes, it is! but I say, and I know, that the minister earns it, every dollar of it. I don't see for the life of me and I ought to know -I don't see how a man can write two of them sermons a week. I worked at mine two whole days, hard work, and it ain't yet. I've given it up. I'm going to hitch up get Dominie Readman to come on Sunday and help me out. I've learned a thing or two I never dreamed before; I have, indeed.”— From an American periodical. quarter done To-morrow Dolly,' and OUR FIRST LOVE. BY THE REV. A. HORNE. "Nevertheless I have somewhat against thee, because thou hast left thy first love." -REV. ii. 4. THIS verse might be read thus: "Nevertheless I have this against thee, thou hast left thy first love." This is a just translation, and gives more definiteness to the statement. These words were at first written to the Church of Ephesus. The Lord Jesus commends them for much that is praiseworthy. They had separated themselves from the world, and kept themselves separate. They had hated sin in many a form and shape. They had borne much scorn and persecution for Christ's name's sake, and they had laboured diligently, and had not fainted. We could scarcely expect that much more could be said of any Church on earth, and that any exception could be taken to a Church bearing such a character. But so it was. The Church of Ephesus was far from perfect. She had even fallen far beneath her original standard of greatness and glory; and He who holds the stars in His right hand, and walketh in the midst of the seven golden candlesticks, reproves her for shortcomings and backslidings, notwithstanding she retained much, very much, in which He delighted and most willingly acknowledged for her encouragement. "Nevertheless I have this against thee, thou hast left thy first love." And, dear friends, may not Christ charge many of us in the present day with the same thing "Thou hast left thy first love"? I. Let us inquire, in the first place, wherein this first love consists. It consists in a clear understanding and deep sense of the love of God. When we were first brought to the knowledge of the truth as it is in Jesus, to perceive the love of God in Jesus Christ, there were feelings and emotions awakened within our minds to which we were before entire strangers. Then old things seemed to pass away, and all things became new. We lived as it were in another world; we inhaled a sweeter atmosphere; the very sun shone brighter, and all nature around us wore a more pleasant aspect. This was because we saw the reconciled countenance of God beaming on us. This was because we saw the Sun of righteousness shining on us from the Cross of Calvary. The love of God was shed abroad in our hearts, and we loved in return. There was no fear, no doubt, no hesitation in our response, "We loved Him who first loved us, and gave Himself for us.' We This love we felt springing from the depth of our inner man. were ready to confess it in the words of our mouth, and we showed it in our life and conduct. We were ready to do anything, or be anything, for Christ's sake. We had something of the mind which was in Jesus. We possessed His spirit in all meekness and gentleness and patience, and we sought to be "kind one to another, tender-hearted, forgiving one another, even as God for Christ's sake hath forgiven us." |