occurred to him in his early years would have affected some men. They would have crouched literally by the way-side of life, and even if they had had that man's powers they would have made their calamity an excuse for a life of idleness and waste. How was it with him? He fell back into his own great and noble heart and out of it he brought up new life which became to him a strength and power that perhaps he never would have exhibited had not that misfortune happened to him. But for that he might have been a scholar; or much worse, a politician; but the twilight of almost total blindness having fallen on him, he called up those powers and concentrated them upon the great work of history, and when building up this historical structure, just as an architect builds up a great cathedral, like that at Cologne, standing forth majestic and glorious, he profited by the very calamity that excluded him from other pursuits and aims. Yea, and with a still nobler spirit, when others lamented his calamity and sought to condole with him in his misfortune, he sang songs in the night and spoke noble words of cheer and encouragement. Now I say it was not out of the intellect, but out of a noble and faithful. heart streamed forth that beautiful life which made this man one of the stars in the constellation of our literature.

"Make you a new heart." How vital this is! It goes below all things else. It goes to the center of a man's personality, and out of it springs all real life.

Not make yourself new brains. We do not want them so much as hearts. Not new conditions. We see men well endowed with conditions, but not with the will to use them. We want new hearts; not new intellectual powers. We can not make new brains, but we can, every one of us, make a new heart. The great consideration is, Do we desire a new heart? What is the life within? Are we selfish? Are we gravitating simply to this world, living within our aims, vain cares, and uses? Across the sweep of ages come the prophet's words, "Make you a new heart and a new spirit." There is nothing vague or mysterious about it. Change your affections if they are selfish; change your aim if it is low; lift up your eyes to that mark of the high calling to which Christ draws you, and let the spirit that was in him be in you. That is making a new heart. Take your heart with earnest purpose and fervent prayer to the cross of Christ, hold it up as a chalice, and let him fill it with his divine excellence and divine self-sacrifice, and then, in the possession of his quickening spirit, you will have a new heart.

LOVE OF THE WORLD.

Love not the world, neither the things that are in the world. If any man love the world, the love of the Father is not in him.-1 John ii 15

I

SUPPOSE there are a great many who would render consent to the injunction and doctrine of this text literally interpreted-render consent with their lips, but withhold it in their hearts. "Love not the world, neither the things that are in the world." To them this is the very essence of religion, and of course they feel that they must confess it with their lips, and they do. Surely they must show outward respect for religion, and if religion says, "Love not the world, neither the things that are in the world," they must say so, too. And yet, I repeat, their hearts do not make this confession; but while they reiterate it with their lips, they do love the world and the things of the world, and can not help loving them.

This only shows what an unreal thing with many people religion is—so unreal that they are ready to confess to any statement of its doctrines, and then practice right the contrary in their lives. And this is the way in which religion is regarded among men very generally

—at least too commonly-as a matter of limitation— something that we are not to do. Men look upon it as a prohibitory law more than anything else. It comes to them in its form of law, as an external sanction, a limitation to the natural instincts of humanity, often hedging in our natural affections and commanding us not to do this or that; and just in proportion as a thing is beautiful and dear, just in proportion as it seems good to us, a great many think the merit of a religious life is in turning away from it; just in proportion as they yearn for it they feel that they must cast it off. This is the reason why many hold religion in such a Jesuitical way. They confess to the full tenor of the letter; they come smooth up to the requirement of the precept, and then seeing that both letter and precept are impossible to be fulfilled according to their interpretation of them, they resort to subtile evasions-to explanations in their lives which they do not make with their lips-and thus exhibit great inconsistency. And hence we find many religious people are such unlovely people. So far as they entertain any notion of religion at all, it is made up of this principle of prohibition, restraint, and asceticism. They do not come to us as Christ came, presenting something that we really love, something that attracts the mind, something that moves the affections of the soul, but they come to us, so far as their religious character is concerned, bristling all over with these prohibitions and restraints. This is why religion is held so inconsistently, as I have said; the life not accordant