disapproves of them? That cannot be possible. His knowledge is perfect, he will not esteem sin otherwise than opposed to all that is good and true, and our rebellion he will forever remember and disapprove.

What, then, does forgiveness effect? Three very important things, essential to our happiness. It restores us to the favour of God, so that he treats us with the same favour that he does those who have never sinned. It also effects a harmony between our souls and the moral law; and it brings a consciousness of rightness, of innocence to the heart, full of peace and comfort. This done and the soul is happy and safe.

But how is it that the mission of Christ and faith in him effects this change? Why was this necessary to this result? We must answer this briefly. We assume that our sin resulted in the displeasure of God, a conflict between the law of God and the soul, and discord within us. These are facts not to be disputed. Now God must continue to frown upon our sins, and upon us, so long as we continue to be sinners, and until he can smile upon us without seeming to overlook our crime, or in any way to tolerate it. Apparent toleration of sin would shake the confidence of the moral world in God's holiness, and would nearly destroy his power to keep the pardoned sinner, and make him feel obligation, and appreciate the sacredness of virtue.

On

We know that his hold upon the conscience of men is now none too strong, and if it were not for the lesson of Christ crucified, which goes right to the heart as no other development can, doubtless it would be impossible to make the sinner so feel the weight of his responsibilities as to repent at all, or if he did repent, to keep him in the path of duty. We can see distinctly how the mission of Christ impresses the consciences of men, how it arouses feelings of reverence for God, and a sense of the value of holiness, and the authority and weight of God's will and pleasure, and just so far as it does this, it intensifies God's testimony against sin, and really adds moral force to his influence among all intelligences in the universe. If he sits no more firmly on his throne, he is felt more sensibly by his subjects, he has sent out the energy of his nature with increased power. so that the objective strength of his authority, and the dignity and sacredness of his law, are greatly enhanced; so that he is felt to be more mighty, more holy and good, and his law more invincible, sacred, holy, just and good than ever before. account of this projecting, as it were, of Divinity, and the moral law, with such increased force, into the midst of the rational world, God can safely offer to the sinner a welcome to his favour, and can trust him with all the love and kindness which he would bestow upon the absolutely innocent, and at the same time not appear to tolerate sin. For the same cause, the law is satisfied to allow the penitent to start in life again; to commence a new record, to come into harmony with the law, and enjoy its protection, and blessings, for the energy and power of its development through Christ, forbids the least suspicion that it has relaxed its authority, or can be violated with impunity. Were it not for this, there never could be harmony between the sinner and the law. One sin would be an eternal barrier to harmony, unless in some way the inflexible nature of the law could be vindicated, so as to compensate for the pardon. But in Christ, God's holiness and the integrity of the law are vindicated, and the true penitent can have pardon; God will smile upon him and the law become his friend, the food and medicine of his soul, and God is no more a hard master to him, exacting hard service, or lashing him with blows.

And when the soul has become reconciled to God and the moral law, the Spirit conveys to the pardoned rebel the consciousness of peace and innocence. There is at once harmony within; the conscience is satisfied; the moral nature is full of joy. It is a wonderful feat of grace, to cause a sinner to feel all the luxury of innocence, and the joy of rescue from guilt and danger, while he mourns his sins, and knows how vile he has been. But this is done in Christ. The penitent has a hatred for sin, a sorrow that he has ever sinned. a sense of obligation, a purpose to obey, a reverence for God, and his law, which he never had before, and yet he is at peace, is happy, has no fear, feels justified, innocent. Thus the Bible teaches, and thus have all penitent believers experienced for eighteen hundred years. This is the mystery and glory of the gospel. This removes all the consequences of sin which endanger our eternal peace. A soul thus reconciled cannot be miserable; but a soul without it cannot be happy. M. S.

There's a light of joy and gladness,
Which shines on every thing,
From the cottage of the poor man,
To the palace of the king.
Though thick clouds oft arise,

And darkness throws its pall,
Yet God, hath for his creatures made
Some sunshine for them all.

There's sunshine for the little birds,
And for the busy bee;

SUNSHINE.

There's sunshine for the fish that dance
About the deep blue sea.
There's sunshine for the lambkin too,
As on the summer day,
It gambols by its mother's side
sportive, happy play.

There's sunshine for the little child

Who climbs his father's knee;

There's sunshine for the groups

who

romp

Beneath the hawthorn tree;
There's sunshine for the boy at school,
When holidays come round,
And for the man, whose honest toil
With good success is crowned.

But, see that darkened chamber,
That mother and her son,
And listen to the last drawn breath
Of that frail little one.
Oh! what despair is in her look,
As she lays down her child,
And utters forth her pent-up grief,
In accents sad and wild.

"Alas! alas! my cherished one,

"That thou art fled and gone, "And thro' this darksome wilderness "I now must walk alone; Derby.

"Thou wer't my only treasure,
"Thy smile did light my heart;
"Oh! 'tis a grief past measure,
"That thou and I must part!"

But in that hour of sorrow,

That mother lifts her eyes,
And thro' her falling tear-drops
Her angel child espies.
Yes, freed from care and trouble,

He dwells in light and love;
And this, as sunshine, gilds her path,
To meet her child above.

Though gloomy is that prisoner's cell,
Where he so long hath lain,
And grievous is the bondage
Of that poor captive's chain;
Yet hope is that man's sunshine,
And oft in visions sweet,
He, and his long-lost loved ones,
Again in transport meet.

There's sunshine in the parent's heart,
When those whom God has given,
Are walking with them in the road
To happiness and heaven.
There's sunshine for the gray
old man,
Whose race is almost run,
He sees the prize awaiting him,
When life's long fight is won.

And oh! the halo that surrounds
The christian's dying bed;
His Saviour's arm is 'neath him still,
His hand supports his head.
And, as the gates are opened wide
Of his eternal home,

A flood of glory is let down

The sunshine of the tomb.

M. S. W.

THE REV. C. H. SPURGEON AND THE PULPIT.

[This article is extracted from the British Quarterly Review. It contains the most sober and philosophical estimate of this extraordinary man, and we make no apology for inserting it in our pages.-Ed.]

MR. SPURGEON is a notability. He filled Exeter-hall with eager listeners for months together. He has since done the same in the great Music-hall of the Surrey Gardens, though spacious enough to receive 9,000 persons. Hitherto the prophets have been in the wrong. The feeling does not subside. The crowds gather even more than before. The "common people" are there, as at the first; but with them there are now many who are of a much higher grade. Professional men, senatorial men, ministers of state, and peers of the realm, are among Mr. Spurgeon's auditory. These are facts that cannot be questioned. That there is something very extraordinary in them every one must feel. How is the matter to be explained?

Mr. Spurgeon's origin and ecclesiastical connection do not solve the mystery. There was nothing in that to favour a success of this nature. He is not only a Dissenter coming up from among Dissenters, but his sect is one of the straightest of them all. In his antecedents we find no traces of academic fame and promise, no high ecclesiastical patronage. The great ushers of successful conventionality among us made no way for him. He comes direct and openly from what John Foster called the "morass of Anabaptism." Nevertheless, there he is, a man-and a very young man, too-who has broken through, or overleaped, all impediment of that sort. In that fact there is not only something remarkable, but something pleasant and hopeful.

We must add, there is nothing in Mr. Spurgeon's presence to account for his success. When we picture to our mind the noble and venerable figure of Latimer, we cease to marvel that the quaintness and homeliness of the English, and of the illustrations pervading his sermons should have fallen with great effect upon his hearers. That lofty form, that noble brow, those finely-chiselled features, and the play of intelligence and humour ever passing like cloud and sunshine over that countenance, are enough to account for a great deal. Whitfield, too, rose like Saul among his fellows, and seemed born to leadership. The same was true of Edward Irving. But Mr. Spurgeon has literally nothing of this sort to help him. His figure is short, and chubby, and rather awkward than otherwise. For so young a man there seems to be a strong tendency in him to grow stout; and should he live another twenty or thirty years, he must take care or he may be classed among the people who are sometimes described as being nearly as broad as they are long. He knows nothing of the æsthetic of dress; everything of that sort is common-place, verging upon the vulgar. He is a veritable Saxon in the groundwork of his nature, both physical and mental, but he has nearly everything from nature, scarce anything from the usual processes of self-culture.

We must not, therefore, look to culture as giving Mr. Spurgeon his power over men. In metaphysics, in theology, in all matters where a trained power of discrimination would become conspicuous, his mind is in a very crude condition. If you submit to his influence, accordingly, it is not because you are sensible to the discipline of his touch, for you feel that you could

amend not a little that falls from him.

You listen, but it is not because you are charmed by the accuracy of the statements that are made, nor because the illustrations brought to the subject are such as to indicate that the preacher is a man rich in general knowledge. No; the charm must be somewhere else. Mr. Spurgeon's head is but poorly disciplined, and his knowledge has no pretension to fulness.

After saying thus much, we shall, perhaps, be expected to say that there is nothing like original or profound thought in Mr. Spurgeon. He has no mission to lift the veil from undiscovered truth. He never gives forth conceptions that afford the slightest promise of such power. Of this fact every

one must be aware.

If Mr. Spurgeon has power over cultivated minds—and he certainly has it is not because he his himself a man of taste, in the conventional meaning of that term. In this respect, indeed, the preacher is said to be improved and improving. But the distance between his manner, and all our longcherished notions about clerical propriety, and the becoming in the pulpit, must be admitted to be very great. Certainly, if people of taste are found about him, it is not because he is always careful not to offend in that form. Latimer, indeed, dealt much in the home-spun, both in language and in allusion. But the preacher in that case was known to be a scholar, abreast with all the learning and subtle speculation proper to his profession. Edward Irving, too, was a man of high general taste and knowledge, and supposed, on that ground, that he had a special mission to the educated, the literary, and the upper classes. But in the case of Mr. Spurgeon, the worship rendered him seems to bear the strongest resemblance to that paid by the ancients to some of the rudest images of their gods-the sculpture was barbarous, all Greek taste might have been shocked by it, only it had its traditions; it was as old as the piety of simpler and better times, and it had some day fallen down from heaven.

Much has been said about Mr. Spurgeon's voice, as though the secret of his power lay in a great measure there. He can preach loud, and to say that, it is thought, is to say a great deal. It is, in fact, to say nothing. The question is not about a man who has voice enough to make 10,000 people hear, but about a man who has attraction enough to bring 10,000 people together to listen. Does every man who can speak so as to make a large congregation hear, get a large congregation to hear him? But what we mean to say concerning Mr. Spurgeon's voice is, that while it is good in some respects, it is far from being the voice we should have expected in so successful a public speaker. It takes a clear, sound, bell-like ring along with it, but it has no rich tones either of loftiness or tenderness. In these respects the voice of Whitfield must have been immeasurably superior. In point of compass and richness the voice of Mr. Spurgeon is not to be mentioned in comparison with that of Mr. James, of Birmingham, or with that of Dr. Raffles: and to compare his power in this way with that of the late agitator, O'Connell, would indeed be to compare small things with great. The voice which fills the Music Hall at the Surrey Gardens so equally, is successful to that extent from its very defects. It is a comparatively level voice. Its great attributes are distinctness and force. Were it to soar at times with the grand, and to descend at times with the pathetic, as the voice of an orator of the highest order would be sure to do, the hearing would not be so uniform as at present. In short, while

Mr. Spurgeon has made the pulpit more attractive than any living man, he has so done by means of a voice which can scarcely be called oratorical. The problem of Mr. Spurgeon's popularity, therefore, is still to be solved. Everything in his origin, and in his ecclesiastical connection, seemed to be opposed to it. His presence could do nothing in his favour-it was, in fact, against him. No one can attribute his success to his culture, or to any unusual grasp of thought, or more than very partially to his voice. What is it, then, that has given him the power?

The first secret of his success, we think, will be found in his elocution. It is wanting in the qualities above-mentioned. But it is singularly natural. There is not a trace of pulpitism in it. The speaker might be a Chartist leader, addressing a multitude on Kennington Common, so complete is the absence of everything from his tone and manner that might have reminded you of church or chapel. The style of the preacher is for the most part purely colloquial. It is one man talking to another. Even when his enunciations become the most impassioned they are still natural. Rarevery rare is such an elocution among preachers. Once upon a time, an elderly Scotchwoman gave her grandson the newspaper to read, telling him to read it aloud. The only reading aloud the boy had been much in the way of hearing was at the parish kirk, and he began to read in the exact tone in which he had so often heard the minister read. The good lady was shocked at the boy's profanity, and giving him a box on the ear, exclaimed— "What! dost thou read the newspaper with the Bible twang?" Oh, that Bible twang! surely the arch-enemy must have invented it as the thing wherewith to thin off the number of church-goers, or to send those to sleep who go. Would, however, that this mistake between saying a thing and singing it were unknown south of the Tweed. Nonconformists and Episcopalians among us are largely infected by it. The extemporaneous mode of preaching, so general among Nonconformists, is much more favourable to a natural manner than the reading of sermons, so common among Churchmen. Many Nonconformists, however, have much to unlearn in this respect, before they can hope to become agreeable public instructors; and with regard to many of our clergy, from the ever recurring notes with which they begin and close their sentence, one is tempted to think they must have been influenced in this respect by their long familiarity with Latin hexameters. Certainly, we get the same key-note at the begining of the sentence, the same monotonous level through the middle, be the middle long or short, and the never failing dactyl and spondee at the end. Is it any marvel if what is so perfunctory and artificial in its tone should be deemed perfunctory and artificial altogether? Mr. Spurgeon's complete exemption from mannerism of this sort has more to do than many people suspect with the success which has marked his career.

The style of the preacher is another element bearing a conspicuous relation to his success. His language is, for the most part, good idiomatic Saxon. He speaks to the people, not in the language of books, but in their own language. He gives them many a short treatise on divinity, but it is not a treatise for the press, it is simply so much talk about the matter. His diction, and his whole manner of setting forth thought are more from the market-place than the cloister.. No man or woman can fail to understand him. It is one of themselves gifted enough to teach them. In this there is so much of nature, especially when compared with the dull platitudes and elaborate obscurities with which these good people have been