ing-house that had lately been abandoned in consequence of its age and ruinous condition had stood a bout central to the inhabitants on the hill.

When the question of a new building was agitated, so much was said about the bleakness of the old site that a division was created at the outset, one party determining never to give up the hill, and the other soon becoming equally determined to locate the new house elsewhere. The parishioners who resided on "the Flat " had the most money and business ability, and these having taken it into their heads that the meeting-house should be in their precinct, half a mile from the hill, were likely, with their advantages, to carry the day, to the certain division of the church, that could ill afford the loss of a tithe of its membership.

With such feeling and such un-sabbathlike talk the meeting-goers of Winton came up on that beautiful Sunday morning to stand before the Lord. They met each other from the opposite side of the hill with cold nods, in some instances with none; and where a recognition in words was vouchsafed, the hearty, "How do you do?" and "Good morning," tailed into a crusty "du," or "mornin';" and it was well that meeting began before any considerable assembly had collected, or there would in all probability have been a set-to in the porch between the champions of the discordant parties.

were cur

They went slowly into the meeting-room, one after another, with hard undevout faces, and, in too many cases, with a secret half-vindictive determination to give one another a piece of their mind at noon.

The minister stood before them-an old man, with a long blue cloak about his shoulders, and hair very grey. One must have been cursed with a more than ordinary share of hardness or levity to be able to look upon and not listen with respect to Pastor Seagraves. Where did he stand in the controversy of his parishioners? As a partisan, nowhere. For months he had preached the Gospel and tried to make peace, and now he had come to the conclusion that he must let them alone. service proceeded, and anon he rose to name his text "Finally, brethren, farewell. Be perfect, be of good comfort, be of one mind, live in peace; and the God of love and peace shall be with you." The congregation, who had looked up with a start as he read these words, listened with pale wonder

The

as he went on to state the reasons which had finally moved him to preach his farewell sermon to-day, and sketched, in a few moving sentences, the peculiar trial of his soul during the weeks and months that they had been wrangling among themselves in violation of both charity and justice.

"It was more than his poor flesh could bear," he said, "to be punished so for twenty years of labour among them, comforting their sick, burying their dead, and taking their converts to the blessed sacraments. He could endure that they should question his strength, doubt his capacity, call him an old man, and hint at his having outlived his usefulness; but that they should set to and destroy the sheep and lambs that he had folded-that by their divisions and unchristian disputes they should threaten to tear down what it had taken nearly a quarter of a century to build-he was not so vigorous as he once was, and it would kill him. They must 'spare him a little, that he might recover strength.''

He went on with his sermon, and the proud, stubborn heads of his hearers, that had turned this way or that, after the first surprise, to exchange glances of astonishment and sorrow, bowed down, one after another, like a bulrush, till the whole assembly assumed the look of humility, and the women grew loud in their tears. They could not consent to lose Pastor Seagraves. He was a fixture in their hearts, and, to many of the congregation, a childhood memory. He had preached the sermons that had conveyed the first convictions of sin to their consciences, and his counsels had guided them to peace. He had attended their bedside in sickness, and visited them in bereavement. He had married their sons and daughters, and buried their dead. For a score of years the history of the church had been his history, and all that during that length of time had happened to them of loss or gain bore in some way the impress of himself. Three beautiful grandchildren of one of his oldest church members called him, too, "grandfather," and in the graveyard of the parish two of his offspring lay asleep, claiming kindred for ever with the people among whom tier died. No, they could not part with Father Seagraves. And, without doubt, in all their wrangling with one another most of the Pastor's parishioners were utterly innocent of any intention to grieve him, and thoughtless of any possible harm that their strife

could bring to the fortunes or the feelings of their minister.

In his conclusion the pastor portrayed the horrors of church discord and the calamity of disunion in powerful and affecting language, and closed with an affectionate but solemn warning to his people against assuming the responsibility of such a disunion then. "BE OF ONE MIND, LIVE IN PEACE!"

His formal resignation of the pastorate followed, when, after commending them to the God of love and peace in a short and tender prayer, he pronounced the benediction, and the congregation slowly wandered out of their seats with abstracted looks, as if just waking out of a lethargy. The weeping women clung around the good old man, impeding his passage out of the house, and besought him, with piteous importunity, not to carry out his resolution to leave them. The men assembled in knots in the porch, very sober, and for a while very quiet. It was evident enough that they were all thinking about their pastor, and feeling badly. The new meeting-house could not be discussed to-day, if the signs told true, and certain young sons of Belial, who hung about the doorstep, grinning with malicious expectation of a quarrel among the Christians," retired in disgust when they found that nothing was likely to be talked about but the minister's farewell sermon. Conversation grew earnest, though carried on in subdued tones, and all hostile feeling was held in abeyance by the interest in a common grief. As the venerable pastor passed out, several men, including the deacons, greeted him with sad looks and an unwonted warm grasp of the hand, and all who stood by showed by their serious and

softened countenances that they shared in the expressed regrets.

The Sabbath-school assembled, and waited in vain for the superintendent: most of the classes waited in vain for their teachers. Word went round that there would be no school that day, and the children dispersed. Meantime a church-meeting was called on the spot, and voted with entire unanimity to request Pastor Seagraves to recall his resignation. Now that some expression had been given to their feelings the people breathed easier; but, better still, the reviving effect of a single unanimous act on the part of the church, that but a few hours before had been ready to fall to pieces of dissension, was such as made the old kindly blood start again in hostile bosoms, and enabled bitter partisans to look each other in the face once more.

The pastor at first refused to reconsider his resignation. He was not accustomed to do things from impulse or for effect, and his act had been prayerfully considered and determined upon; but as days passed on, and brought him evidences of softened feeling in his people toward one another, he yielded to their entreaties to remain with them and break the bread of life-not, however, until he had exacted a solemn promise from them in formal assembly to drop the matter of church building, till, in the fear and love of God, they could be one on that and every other subject. He stayed with them five years more, and gathered souls. Then the Master took him to his rest. He lived to preach in a new edifice built by a united people on the old hill, and to this day old Christians who worship there weep as they point you to his grave, and tell of the good he did in Winton.

steps to his presence-chamber; no invisible voice holds the earth awake; no hand cometh forth from the obscure to write his purposes in letters of flame. The vision is shut up, and the testimony is sealed, and the Word of the Lord is ended; and this solitary volume, with its chapters and verses, is the sum total of all for which the chariot of heaven made so many visits to the earth, and the Son of God himself tabernacled and dwelt among us. The truth which it contains once dwelt undivulged in the bosom of God; and, on coming forth to take its place among things revealed, the heavens, and the earth, and nature through all her chambers, gave a reverent welcome. Beyond what it reveals, the mysteries of the future are unknown. To gain it acceptation and currency, the noble company of martyrs testified unto the death. The general assembly of the firstborn in heaven made it the day-star of their hopes and the pavilion of their peace. Its every sentence is charged with the power of God, and powerful to the everlasting salvation of souls. Being filled with these thoughts of the primeval divinity of revealed wisdom when she dwelt in the bosom of God, and was of his eternal self a part, long before he prepared the heavens or set a compass upon the face of the deep; revolving also how, by the space of 4,000 years, every faculty of mute Nature did solemn obeisance to this daughter of the Divine Mind, whenever he pleased to commission her forth to the help of mortals; and further meditating upon the delights she had of old with the sons of men, the height of heavenly temper to which she raised them, and the offspring of magnanimous deeds which these two-the wisdom of God and the soul of man-did engender

and bring forth; meditating, I say, upon these mighty topics, our soul is smitten with grief and shame to remark how, in this latter day, she hath fallen from her high estate, and fallen along with her the great and noble character of men. Or if there be still a few names, as of the missionary Martza, to emulate the saints of old, how to the commonality of Christians her oracles have fallen into a household commonness, and her visits into a cheap familiarity; while by the multitude she is mistaken for a minister of terror sent to oppress poor mortals with moping melancholy, and to a deadly office upon the happiness of human kind.-Edward Irving.

THE BLESSING OF ADVERSITY.

PROSPERITY is the blessing of the Old Testament; adversity is the blessing of the New, which carrieth the greater benediction and the clearer revelation of God's favour. Yet, even in the Old Testament, if you listen to David's harp, you shall hear as many hearse-like airs as carols; and the pencil of the Holy Ghost hath laboured more in describing the afflictions of Job than the felicities of Solomon. Prosperity is not without many fears and distastes and adversity is not without comforts and hopes. We see in needleworks and embroideries, it is more pleasing to have a lively work upon a sad and solemn ground, than to have a dark and melancholy work upon a lightsome ground: judge, therefore, of the pleasure of the heart by the pleasure of the eye. Certainly virtue is like precious odours, most fragrant when they are incensed, or crushed: for prosperity doth best discover vice, but adversity doth best discover virtue.--Bacon.

MISSIONARY WORK IN AGRA. THE work of the mission in the city of Agra, in Northern India, has presented, during the past year, several very interesting circumstances. It is a very large city, and till the mutiny took place was the seat of government of the north-west provinces. That is now removed to Allahabad. There are, however, always staying at Agra a large number of British troops, and this

secures the residence of an European popu lation. The missionaries, the Rev. John Gregson and the Rev. D. P. Broadway, labour among both the European and native communities, and from both sections numerous converts have been made. pastor of the native church is John Bernard; but, with the missionaries, he devotes a large portion of his time to preaching among the heathen.

The

Bernard relates a very curious incident in his report, singularly illustrative of the silent yet uncertain way in which the influence of the Gospel penetrates the native community. We will give it in his own words::

"Dec. 18th.-I went to the city in the morning, and after preaching, went to call upon a friend. On my way I fell into conversation with a very respectable-looking native. He was well dressed, and seemed to know me, though I did not know him. Our conversation turned upon religion, and he spoke much in praise of Christianity; and from his manner of speaking, I inferred that he was well educated, and acquainted with both the Persian and English languages. I said to him, 'The chains of caste among you Hindus are very strong. When you burst these fetters, then you will be prepared to embrace the Christian religion. He replied, "If you won't betray us, I will take you to our secret assembly.' I said, 'Very good.' He then led me along some narrow passages, which I had never before traversed, and, leaving me standing before the door of a house, he went inside. In a short time he came out and called me. After following him up some stairs he led me into a large room richly furnished with carpets, chandeliers, pictures, &c., &c. In the centre of the room was a long table, upon which various kinds of fruit and sweetmeats were spread out. There was also a decanter of spirits, with a wineglass. Seated around the table I counted eighteen natives, all dressed very respectably, and I knew some of them by their dress to occupy lucrative situations. On my entering, all rose to their feet, and in English wished me 'Good morning,' and added, 'Reverend sir, we esteem ourselves highly favoured by the visits of parties like yourselves, and are most happy to welcome you amongst us.' They then gave me a chair to sit on, and one of them coming forward, poured a wine-glass full of spirits from the decanter and offered it me to drink. I replied, 'I never drink spirits.' Then all were astonished, and began to look at one another with amazement; and the one who offered me the spirits said, 'This is a very strange thing. I have never known a Christian refuse to drink spirits, but we have always understood that it is a universal custom among Christians to drink spirits.' I replied, 'A true Christian shuns such things. Upon this he was silent, and sat down, I then asked those

assembled if they belonged to Brahmo Somaj? They said, 'No, we all read the Bible;' and added, "The foundation of Hinduism in Agra is shaken to its basis, and many have thrown off the chains of caste.' They also told me that many meetings like this were held in Agra, and further said, 'We do not publicly profess our views, because our fathers and mothers are wealthy, owning much land and other property, and if we were now to avow ourselves Christians, we should be cut off without a penny. But when we have inherited our property, we will then publicly profess Christianity, and appoint you our pastor, and pay your salary ourselves. There is not a man among us,' they added, 'who gets less than fifty rupees monthly.' They then begged of me not to betray them, and told me that upwards of thirty individuals belonged to their assembly. They also said, 'We will send for you sometimes, if you will again favour us with your company.' I explained to them somewhat of the Christian religion, and before leaving, asked permission to engage in prayer. They readily consented, and all knelt down, took off their hats, and behaved with the greatest propriety and reverence, so as to impress me with the conviction that they were familiar with our

mode of prayer. When I left, all shook hands with me, and wished me good morning. Two of them accompanied me some little distance from the house, and again begged of me not to betray them."

Although Bernard has not met with them since, it is clear that, to a certain degree, the truth has reached the hearts of these people, and thus the way of the Lord is prepared.

Among the five or six inquirers who give some encouragement to the missionaries, one is & Mohammedan fakir, or mendicant. He has spent his life, from infancy, in begging. He has been to Mecca, making the holy pilgrimage, which it is the dream of all Mussulmans at some time of their lives to make. Eight months ago he landed in Bombay with his wife and one child, a boy nine years of age. He found his way to Agra, and came to the house of one of the theological students begging. "Silver and gold have I none, but such as I have give I unto thee," was the reply. The student was reading his Bible at the time, and he began to speak to the man about the bread of life. The fakir's attention was arrested. He soon said that he was sick of Moham

ing-house that had lately been abandoned in consequence of its age and ruinous condition had stood a bout central to the inhabitants on the hill.

When the question of a new building was agitated, so much was said about the bleakness of the old site that a division was created at the outset, one party determining never to give up the hill, and the other soon becoming equally determined to locate the new house elsewhere. The parishioners who resided on "the Flat " had the most money and business ability, and these having taken it into their heads that the meeting-house should be in their precinct, half a mile from the hill, were likely, with their advantages, to carry the day, to the certain division of the church, that could ill afford the loss of a tithe of its membership.

With such feeling and such un-sabbathlike talk the meeting-goers of Winton came up on that beautiful Sunday morning to stand before the Lord. They met each other from the opposite side of the hill with cold nods, in some instances with none; and where a recognition in words was vouchsafed, the hearty, "How do you do ?" and "Good morning," were curtailed into a crusty "du," or "mornin';" and it was well that meeting began before any considerable assembly had collected, or there would in all probability have been a set-to in the porch between the champions of the discordant parties.

They went slowly into the meeting-room, one after another, with hard undevout faces, and, in too many cases, with a secret half-vindictive determination to give one another a piece of their mind at noon.

The minister stood before them-an old man, with a long blue cloak about his shoulders, and hair very grey. One must have been cursed with a more than ordinary share of hardness or levity to be able to look upon and not listen with respect to Pastor Seagraves. Where did he stand in the controversy of his parishioners? As a partisan, nowhere. For months be had preached the Gospel and tried to make peace, and now he had come to the conclusion that he must let them alone. service proceeded, and anon he rose to name his text "Finally, brethren, farewell. Be perfect, be of good comfort, be of one mind, live in peace; and the God of love and peace shall be with you." The congregation, who had looked up with a start as he read these words, listened with pale wonder

The

as he went on to state the reasons whic had finally moved him to preach his far well sermon to-day, and sketched, in a fe moving sentences, the peculiar trial of b soul during the weeks and months th they had been wrangling among then selves in violation of both charity an justice.

"It was more than his poor flesh coul bear," he said, "to be punished so fo twenty years of labour among them, com forting their sick, burying their dead, an taking their converts to the blessed sacr ments. He could endure that they shoul question his strength, doubt his capacity call him an old man, and hint at his havin outlived his usefulness; but that they shoul set to and destroy the sheep and lambs tha he had folded-that by their divisions and unchristian disputes they should threaten to tear down what it had taken nearly quarter of a century to build-he was no so vigorous as he once was, and it would kill him. They must 'spare him a little that he might recover strength.""

He went on with his sermon, and the proud, stubborn heads of his hearers, that had turned this way or that, after the first surprise, to exchange glances of astonishment and sorrow, bowed down, one after another, like a bulrush, till the whole assembly assumed the look of humility, and the women grew loud in their tears. They could not consent to lose Pastor Seagraves. He was a fixture in their hearts, and, to many of the congregation, a childhood memory. He had preached the sermons that had conveyed the first convictions of sin to their consciences, and his counsels had guided them to peace. He had at tended their bedside in sickness, and visited them in bereavement. He had married their sons and daughters, and buried thei dead. For a score of years the history the church had been his history, and all that during that length of time had hap pened to them of loss or gain bore in some way the impress of himself. Three beauti ful grandchildren of one of his oldest church members called him, too, "grandfather," and in the graveyard of the parish two of his offspring lay asleep, claiming kindred for ever with the people among whom t died. No, they could not part with Father Seagraves. And, without doubt, in all their wrangling with one another most of the Pastor's parishioners were utterly innocent of any intention to grieve him, and thoughtless of any possible harm that their strife