and I recollect how, when they roughly answered me, their treatment would chill my soul. But when some one would say: "I feel for you; I would like to help you, but I can't; but you will be all right soon," I went away happy and light-hearted. That man's sympathy did me good.

man I had ever met.

Μν

When I first went away from home, and to a place some thirteen miles away, it seemed as if I could never be any further away. brother had gone to live at that town a year and a half before. I recollect as I walked down the street with him, I was very homesick, and could hardly keep down the tears. My brother said to me: "There's a man here will give you a cent; he gives a cent to every new boy that comes here." I thought that he would be the best By and by he came along, and I thought he was going to pass me. My brother stopped him, thinking, I suppose, I was going to lose the cent, and the old gentleman-he was an old gentleman-looked at me and said: "Why, I have never seen you before: you must be a new boy." "Yes," said my brother; "he has just come." The old man put his trembling hand upon my head, and patted it and told me that I had a Father in heaven, although my earthly father was dead, and he gave me a new cent. I don't know where that cent went to; but the kindly touch of that old man's hand upon my head has been felt by me all these years. What we want is sympathy from men. There are hundreds of men with hearts full of love, who, if they received but words of sympathy, their hearts would be won to a higher life. But I can imagine men saying: "How are you going to reach them? How are you going to do it? How are you going to get into sympathy with these people?" It is very easy done. Put yourself into their places. There is a young man, a great drunkard; perhaps his father was a drunkard. If you had been surrounded with influences like this, perhaps you would have been a worse drunkard than he is. Well, just put yourself into his place, and go and speak to him lovingly and kindly.

I want to tell you a lesson taught me in Chicago, a few years ago. In the months of July and August a great many deaths occur among children, you all know. I remember I attended a great many funerals; sometimes I would go to two or three funerals a day. I got so used to it that it did not trouble me to see a mother take the last kiss and the last look at her child, and see the coffin-lid closed. I got accustomed to it, as in the war we got accustomed to the great attles, and to see the wounded and the dead never troubled us. When I got home one night, I heard that one of my Sunday-school pupils was dead; and her mother wanted me to come to the house. I went to the poor home, and saw the father drunk. Adelaide had been brought from the river. The mother told me she washed for a living; the father earned no money, and poor Adelaide's work was to get wood for the fire. She had gone to the river that day and seen a

piece floating on the water, had stretched out for it, had lost her balance and fallen in. The poor woman was very much distressed. "I would like you to help me, Mr. Moody," she said, to bury my child. I have no lot, I have no money." Well, I took the measure for the coffin and came away. I had my little girl with me, and she said: "Papa, suppose we were very, very poor, and mamma had to work for a living; and I had to get sticks for the fire, and was to fall into the river, would you be very sorry?" This question reached my heart. "Why, my child, it would break my heart to lose you,' " I said, and I drew her to my bosom. "Papa, do you feel bad for that mother?" she said, and this word woke my sympathy for the woman; and I started and went back to the house, and prayed that the Lord might bind up that wounded heart. When the day came for the funeral, I went to Graceland. I had always thought my time too precious to go out there; but I went. The drunken father was there, and the poor mother. I bought a lot, the grave was dug, and the child laid among strangers. There was another funeral coming up, and the corpse was laid near the grave of little Adelaide. And I thought how I would feel if it had been my little girl that I had been laying there among strangers. I went to my Sabbath-school thinking this, and suggested that the children should contribute and buy a lot in which we might bury a hundred poor little children. We soon got it, and the papers had scarcely been made out when a lady came and said: "Mr. Moody, my little girl died this morning, let me bury her in the lot you have got for the Sunday-school children." The request was granted, and she asked me to go to the lot and say prayers over her child. I went to the grave-it was a beautiful day in June, and I remember asking her what the name of her child was. She said Emma. That was the name of my little girl; and I thought, What if it had been my own child. We should put ourselves in the places of others. I could not help shedding a tear. Another woman came shortly after and wanted to put another one into the grave. I asked his name. It was Willie, and it happened to be the name of my little boy-the first two laid there were called by the same names as my two children, and I felt sympathy and compassion for those two

women.

If you want to get into sympathy, put yourself into a man's place. Chicago needs Christians whose hearts are full of compassion and sympathy. If we haven't got it, pray that we may have it, so that we may be able to reach those men and women that need kindly words and kindly actions far more than sermons. The mistake is that we have been preaching too much and sympathizing too little. The gospel of Jesus Christ is a gospel of deeds and not of words. May the Spirit of the Lord come upon us this night. May we remember that Christ was moved in compassion for us, and may we, if we find some poor man going down among thieves, or lying wounded and

bleeding, look upon him with sympathy, and get below him and raise him up.

"HIS OWN BROTHER."

"He frst Andeth his own brother, and brought him to Jesus." JoHx 1: 41.

I want to call your attention this morning to a text you will find in the 1st chapter according to John, part of the 41st verse: "He first findeth his own brother, and brought him to Jesus."

I thought this morning I would just like to take a leaf out of my own life in the past, that it may help some of those present in this hall who have brothers that are very dear to them, but who are out of Christ. Twenty-one years ago last March, when God converted me, the very first thing that came into my mind was my six brothers. Then and there, I began to pray for them. I had never prayed for them before; and I began to cry to God that these six brothers and two sisters might be led home to peace. And for twenty-one years that has been my prayer; that has been my cry to God. I remember the first time I went home after my conversion. I thought I could tell them what God had done for me. I thought I had only to explain it, to have them all see the light. How disappointed I was when I left home that first time, after remaining for a few days, to find they did not see it. I was not very experienced in pleading for souls then. Perhaps I did not go at it in the right way. But I kept on, as best I could. And a few years after, when I was in this city-three years after, I was in a store on Lake street, a postman came one day and brought a letter that told me my youngest brother was given up by the physician to die. That day he was dying; I went into the fifth story of that building, and if ever I prayed earnestly in my life I did then, that my brother might be spared. He was the Benjamin of the family. He was born after my father died. I thought I could give him up then, if he only was a Christian. But I had not any hope. The thought that my brother, who was very dear to me, dearer to me than my life, it seemed, should die thus in his sins, was too much for me to stand; and I wrestled with God in prayer. It seemed God answered my prayer. The next letter said he was better. He had a run of typhoid fever that lasted forty-two days. And when he got off that bed, I felt, in answer to prayer,

the boy was much dearer to me than ever before. But he never was well during sixteen or eighteen years. I remember fourteen years ago he came to me, to this city. I have that dear boy in my heart now. I thought then my oppprtunity had surely come, and I could lead him to Christ. But he was taken sick again; I could not keep him here. The doctor said he might live a number of years, but could not be cured. Naturally very ambitious and proud-spirited, he did not want to go back home. But the doctor said it was the best I could do, and I took him back to Massachusetts. I took him home from Chicago to N rthfield, all the way preaching Christ to him. But he took no interest in my speech. Everything I said failed to influence him, although he seemed to love me very much. And for fourteen years I kept that dear boy on my heart; I just kept on praying for him. Year after year, I went back to the old home just to spend a few days with him, that I might win him to Christ. He knew I wanted him to be a Christian; but it seemed he would not comply. He took no interest in the Bible, no interest in Christianity. He would talk politics, he would talk everything else; but you could not get him to talk of Christ or Christianity. I went back home a year ago, with a heart just burdened for the salvation of my family. My heart burned to draw them to Christ. I went to preaching in that town. In the last month, my heart going out to that dear boy, I asked all those present in the church willing to become Christians to rise; and he, my long-sought brother, rose for prayers. What a precious relief for my heart! He became an earnest Christian. He turned his face toward heaven that very night. He became an active Christian. And when they soon after decided to have a Young Men's Christian Association for that town, the young men wanted a president; and they elected him for president. Oh, that was a blessed day for me, when my brother, converted to God, after twenty years' prayer, took charge of that little band! I heard him make his first speech, and that seemed the happiest day of my life. He was a young man of great talents; he was the star of the family, the most promising one of the family. No one of us could have done as much for Christ, had he gone to him in his earliest manhood. And he went to work. He took a leading part in religious meetings. He went and talked with weak brothers, and set them on their feet again. He searched for souls on both sides of the Connecticut River, in both sides of the valley. More conversions took place after I left than when I was there. Every Sunday afternoon he would go out into the country and take charge of meetings; and as I used to stand in the pulpit sometimes, and look down on that young brother in his zealous work, no one but God knows how I loved him and rejoiced with great joy. And when God took him, he was in the midst of his work, bringing others to Christ. Oh, I want to tell you my thoughts after I left you suddenly! The first

thought as I went toward my home-Oh, how deep the sorrow! The dear boy was gone forever; and in the first moments grief will have its way. The text in scripture, the expression that David used when he lost Jonathan, kept coming into my mind: "I am very much distressed for thee, my brother Jonathan; very pleasant hast thou been unto me; thy soul to me was wonderful." Yes, thy soul to me was wonderful. For these twenty years, I always knew he was going to meet me at the depot. I always found him waiting for me there; I never missed him. Sometimes, I was there three or four trains behind; but he was always watching and waiting for me. And that sadly beautiful hymn also kept coming into my mind: "We shall meet but we shall miss him; there will be one vacant chair." But over and above all these, the voice from heaven at last mide itself heard to my heart, "Thy brother shall rise again." The clou I was lifted; and for about five hundred miles on my way to my home that verse rung in my ears. It seemed to echo and re-echo throughout all the journey, "Thy brother shall rise again." Oh, the picious Bible! It never seemed to me so precious as it did that day. My call to mourning was the deepest I have ever known; for next perhaps to my wife, my two children, and my aged mother, I loved none so dearly as this youngest brother. But that precious promise gives the heart cause to rejoice, even in the sorrow of death. And again, in the fi.teenth chapter of Corinthians what divine sustaining words I took to my soul.

But some men will say, how are the dead raised up? and with what body do they come? Thou fool, that which thou sow est is not quickened, except it die. And that which thou sowest, thou sowes not that body that shall be, but bare gran; it may chance of wheat, or of some other grain. But God giveth it a body as it hath pleased him, and to every seed his own body. So also is the resurrect on of the dead. It is sown in corruption; it is raised in incorruption. It is sown in dishonor; it is raised in glory. It is sown in weakness; it is raised in power."

Dishonor! Oh, as we laid him down in the cold grave, I thought as we laid him away of the worms that would come to his body, and of the dishonor. But with what power the Word of God came to my soul then in these words, "It is raised in glory." We sowed it in weakness; but it shall be raised in power. It seemed there was victory even in that trying hour. It was sown in corruption; but it shall be raised incorruptible. It was sown mortal; but it shall be raised immortal. It was sown a natural body; it shall be raised a spiritual body. And, as it had borne the image of the earthly, it shall also bear the image of the heavenly. I shall see that brother, by and by; then shall he be glorified. Yes, my friends, I could even rejoice as I read these blessed assurances of Scripture. The Word of God came to my soul as never before. Blessed Bible! how dark it would have been but for that blessed book. But by its beams all darkness was driven away. It seemed I could even thank God for