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THE HOUR BEFORE YOU GO TO CHURCH.

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and irritating insipidity: and nobody cared for ought that was sublime and heroic, spiritual and eternal. Add to this, that

LITERATURE,

the friend and ally of the young, was not in a better position to help them than the church. Many of the people were almost as ignorant of its treasures as though Caxton had never produced the press: and those who did find access to them discovered a large quantity of filth and obscenity. Sir Walter Scott reports that a grandame of his, at the age of eighty, was unable to read, without shame, a book which sixty years before she had heard read out for amusement in large circles of the "best society" in London.* Hannah More said of a time later than the origin of the Sunday school, in a hackneyed quotation, "We saw but one Bible in the parish of Cheddar, and that was used to prop a flower-pot." Charles, of Bala, relates that in 1785 his work in Wales was greatly impeded for want of the Scriptures, and tells of a little girl who was obliged to travel seven miles to get sight of a copy of the Bible.†

Recall, in addition to these phenomena, the total absence of political morality, the cruelty and injustice of many of the laws, the weakening and corrupting of home life by the fearful facilities given for marriages, and you will not wonder that ROBERT RAIKES was startled into wise thoughtfulness and practical deed when going through a depraved part of the city of Gloucester, where the children were engaged in pinmaking, a woman said to him, as she heard his expressions of mingled pity and surprise, "Ah! sir, could you see this part of the town on Sunday, you would be shocked indeed; for then the street is filled with multitudes of these wretches, who, released on that day from work, spend their time in noise and riot, playing at chuck, and cursing and swearing in a manner so horrid as to give to any serious mind an idea of hell rather than of any other place."

Surely it was high time Young England went to School!

JOHN CLIFFord.

THE HOUR BEFORE YOU GO TO CHURCH.

BY REV. W. ARNOT.

I HAVE in my eye at present the hour before you go to church on the Sabbath forenoon. I am anxious about it. The note struck then is likely to give tone to your spirits all the day. Redeem it. Redeem it as much as you can from family duties. Redeem it wholly from "plaiting of hair and putting on of apparel." Redeem it wholly from vain conversation. How very much the power of the minister's preaching depends on the preparing of the hearer's heart. If you come up to the church with your mind crowded with trifles and puffed up with vanity-what can ministers do? They can do nothing but beat the air. What else can they do if there be nothing before them but air to beat at? It will make a sound, and that is all. I fear that many of my dear people spend more time on the Sabbath morning in putting veils on their faces than in taking the veil off their hearts-more time in trying to make themselves appear before men what they are not, than in trying to make themselves appear before God what they are.

Timpson's Bible Triumphs, p. 116.

* Lockhart's Life of Scott, v., p. 136, 137 On all these points cf. Lecky's History of the Eighteenth Century. See also, on the general subject, Contemporary Review for Jan., 1880, an article by Karl Hillebrand. Essays and Reviews. Tendencies of Religious Thought in England, 1888 to 1750, by M. Pattison. A Retrospect of the Religious Life of England, by J. J. Taylor, c. v., § viii., pp. 365, 369.

The late Rev. James Greenwood, of Barton.

"I should count myself infinitely happier than the seraphim, if I had a thousand tongues with which to preach Jesus in a thousand different places at the same time."

SUCH were the last words of our departed friend and brother, penned only a few hours before he passed from the society of men to that of the seraphim. Those words are a revelation of his deepest desire, of his intensest passion. Like David Brainerd and Henry Martyn he wished that he might be a flame of fire in the service of his Redeemer: and he sought, as far as the feeble frame in which that flame of desire burned would allow him, to realize his loftiest wishes He was feeble, had long been ill, and he died young. His age was only thirty-one: but he had lived long enough to prove that he was a good man, full of faith, and of the Holy Ghost.

James Greenwood was born in Yorkshire, and derived his earliest inspirations from the rugged grandeur of its lofty hills. Very early he passed under the discipline of that severe monitress, Sorrow, and by the loss of his father had his young heart opened to thoughts from the world that is beyond death. Becoming a Christian he united with the church at Todmorden, and soon translated his youthful piety into practical consecration and helpful deed. Hope and joy marked him for their own: for he knew that communion with God was his privilege, and holiness his goal of desire and achievement.

But he was not content to be active in Christ's work; he wished to be qualified for it, and he set himself sedulously to the task of selfimprovement so that he might not only preach to souls, but "win souls" to Christ. It was not enough for him to be doing, he wished to do well what he was doing. The passion that fired him, up to his decease, and urged him to say, "O that I had a thousand lives, that they might all be energetically used for Him who loved so much," burnt strong in him when he was in his teens; and as he had not a thousand lives, but only one, he resolved to make the most of it in preparing to preach the gospel of Christ. Therefore the efforts he made privately to cultivate and increase his powers were followed by an application to our COLLEGE. He was accepted, and entered in his twenty-first year.

The occasional preacher now became the earnest and genial student, and soon won the regard of his comrades in service by his quiet humour, his warm sociability, his kind disposition, his slowness at taking offence, and his zest and enjoyment in the students' weekly prayermeeting. The Rev. Robert Silby, of Retford, a fellow-student, says of him, "He was a very worthy man. He had a brave and hopeful heart, a good degree of pertinacity, and an unconquerable faith in God's love. He was a quiet unobtrusive plodder; and had his career been longer would have shot ahead of men with more dash and brilliance."

After his collegiate term expired he settled at Swadlincote. His first pastorate was brief; for his health soon gave way, and he was obliged to seek rest and renewal; but he proved himself not faultless-indeed who of our elder ministry is ?-but a good workman of Jesus Christ, with a real zeal for the saving of men, and a thorough devotion of him

THE LATE JAMES GREENWOOD, OF BARTON.

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self to the main work of his life. Swadlincote has many memorials of his short stay in the affectionate regard of hearts that were enriched by his loving labour and hopeful words.

Recovered somewhat in health, the church at Barton, the mother of us all, invited this young man to the pastorate, and nourished him as a true and kind mother would. The relationships of pastor and people could hardly be more cordial, more affectionate and more sincere. Their love for him grew more and more as his character ripened and unfolded, and his stainless and strong spiritual life became known. He was a sympathetic pastor. He made each member's case his own; suffering with the suffering, cheering the mournful, guiding the perplexed, and helping the tried. He put nothing on; he was what he seemed. He took pains to be a pastor in heart: and so in no spirit of arid officialism or hollow externalism, but in that of a man, a Christian man and a brother, called of God to be a Barnabas, he did his pastoral work.

His preaching was chaste and subdued, often full of eloquence, and always abounded in practical power. Great things were expected from him; for his heart was in his work, and he spared no pains in the preparation of his discourses. He laboured hard, did a good work, and left, not only a valuable and inspiring example, but that labour which will appear in in "much fruit" in the day of Christ.

His attachment to the denomination, and all its institutions and work, was intense. There was no part of our work in which he did not feel a glowing interest; but his heart found freest scope for its love in missions at home and abroad. The slowness of our march in Home Mission work pained him, and he toiled hard to hasten its speed. His friends at Barton will honour his memory in continuing and increasing that good work.

He has died young, and after a long affliction. As far back as Nov., 1878, he ruptured a blood vessel, and his friends despaired of his life. The following summer revived him; and his sufferings chastened and refined him. His letters teem with proofs of his gratitude to God, and to the Barton Church. He says of the latter, "They are kindness itself. I shall never be able to repay them for all they have done and are doing for me." A manse had been built for him at Barlestone, and he was looking forward, before his illness, to a happy union with one he had loved for years; but these hopes were dimmed. Still he found solace in prayer, and panted to preach Christ and His salvation. He says: "It will be a deep joy if permitted to preach Christ and Him crucified again. The very thought fills my heart with a holy pleasure, and yet perhaps this may not be in store for me."

Again he writes to Rev. R. Silby, May 11th, 1879:—

"If the Lord sees fit to restore me to health again, and strengthens me so that I shall be able to preach His glorious gospel; if He will but glorify Himself through a poor wooden thing like myself (and blessed be His name, He does not despise that which is weak, and often to human appearance worthless), I cannot only thank, but adore Him for this knocking-down, and long captivity. You are quite right; one cannot see what God means to do with one; but the time is coming when the mists that hide His puposes will all have cleared away, and then one will see that He was leading one by the right way. It is blessed to feel, to know, that He is always seeking our good, and that He works in our lives after the counsel of His own will.' Unlike men He works in time, but not

for it. Eternity is the background of His working; and our individual care and trouble, and discipline and guidance, will put on beauties that they do not now possess for us, when the light of His unclouded love is cast upon them in that eternity towards which we are all fast hastening. Won't it be grand, enrapturing, to look at things from the Divine standpoint? And shall we not, then, be thankful that He kept the scaffolding up until He had finished the building? We shall admire His workmanship all the more. I desire to do and suffer His will, whatever it may be; and constantly pray that He will guide and culture me, so that His name may be praised, as well as my good wrought out. Don't forget me when, in secret, you bow before Him, and be assured that I shall be grateful to you for your prayers and brotherly sympathy."

On the Tuesday prior to his death his colleague in the Barton pastorate, the Rev. George Needham, was with him, and amongst his last words were these:-"I hope when I die it will be sudden-sudden death, sudden glory-won't it be grand. I have asked the Lord that it may be so, and I believe He will grant me my desire." He did: but not before he had written the characteristic words at the head of this memoir. He retired to rest on the night of the 28th Dec., and on the morning "he was not," for God had taken him to Himself.

His body rests at Barton. The funeral was attended by many sorrowing friends, Mr. Needham and Mr. Staynes (who also preached his memorial sermon) officiating. A loving mother, sister, and brother mourn his absence; the church at Barton laments the removal of a beloved pastor and friend and teacher. The ministry has lost from its ranks a true and courageous soldier; and the denomination is poorer by the departure of one who loved it wisely and well; and heaven is richer by the accession of a redeemed and regenerated life.

Is it a mistake that the worker falls so early? Let the worker himself speak. On the last afternoon of his life he wrote, "It is a joy to have no will but God's! For me to live is Christ, and to die is gain." Is suffering in the worker's life a mistake? Hear our friend and brother again as from out of the heat of the fire he writes: If our Lord chooses us in the furnace of affliction, then we ought to rejoice with a great bounding joy. Better be in the fire with the form of the fourth, the Son of God, than anywhere else without Him."

Let not our hearts be troubled, we believe in God; we believe in Christ, we believe in heaven, and we believe in the perpetual fruitfulness of Christian lives, as well as in the immortal blessedness of all who die in the Lord.*

FATHER TAYLOR ON BALAAM.

THE Boston sailor preacher was not wanting in courage or sense. C. H. Spurgeon relates of him-A preacher had told an audience of a wicked old miser who had by accident been blown up by his own powder mills, and barely survived, but he lingered long enough, said the speaker, "to give his heart to God, and now who would not say with the holy man of old, Let me die the death of the righteous, and let my last end be like his." Scarcely had the speaker finished when Father Taylor rose and said, "I don't want any trash brought to this meeting. I hope none of my people calculate on serving the devil all their lives, and cheating him with their dying breath. Don't look forward to honouring God by giving him the last snuff of an expiring candle. Perhaps you will never be blown up in a powder mill. That 'holy man' that we heard of was Balaam; the meanest scoundrel mentioned in the Old Testament or the New. And now I hope we shall never hear anything more from Balaam, nor from his ass."

*For the materials of this memoir we are indebted to the Revs. G. Needham and R. Silby; but specially and in very large measure indeed to the Rev. W. J. Staynes, of Hinckley.-EDITOR.

let Sundays.

BY REV. T. R. STEVENSON.

:

A VERY popular living poet exclaims, in one of his songs, "How beautiful is the rain." So it is, but, like many other things, in order to be appreciated and enjoyed it must be under certain circumstances. There are seasons when we don't feel at all disposed to speak of it as Longfellow does. Sunday is a case in point: who welcomes rain then? You awake on the morning of the first day of the week for a moment or two you have to put on your " considering cap" in order to remember "what day it is," as we commonly phrase it. You are not long in making the discovery, and straightway, in a desultory mode, you begin to think of your plans anent the next sixteen or eighteen hours. Suddenly you hear a sound that requires no explanation: it is quite familiar;-the rain is flinging itself petulantly on your bed-room window-panes. You are in for a wet Sunday.

Everything seems uncomfortable. As the hours sluggishly move on, one feels muddied, lethargic, and sleepy. There is a smell of damp all over the house: here and there a tiny stream of moisture slowly descends on the walls of the hall: possibly the wind and the fire are at variance, in consequence of which occasional puffs of smoke compel you to beat a hasty retreat from the hearth-rug, afflicting your vision and trying your temper. If you chance, up-stairs, to go to the toilet-table and glance in the glass, it proves to be decidedly dim: if you take up a book the chances are that it will feel sticky.

Miserable enough. But out-of-doors matters are worse. Down comes the obstinate, uncompromising rain: there is not a break in the clouds. Twelve o'clock passes, and, behold, no change: the heavens are as leaden and dull as they well can be. Drip and slop, slop and drip-that is the music of the day. In the gutters a miniature river, extremely drab and muddy, hurries along, and you catch yourself gazing dreamily at the straws, leaves, and other waifs borne on its surface. The policeman who tramps heavily past looks quite forlorn: the poor postman, despite a big oilskin cape, has got wretchedly wet: as for the stray beggar shivering in patched, ragged clothes, and loafing, for shelter, under an archway, you can't help feeling sorry for the couching creature, and you break through your rule not to "give anything at the door."

Perhaps at the breakfast-table a council of war is called. Shall we go out this morning? Yes: of course we shall. We are not going to let a little rain keep us from chapel: that would never do. We are "neither sugar, nor salt," and, putting up with the weather as well as we can, we shall be off at the usual time. The juniors of the family will stay at home, committed to the care of Mary, and duly cautioned against getting too near the fire, but the rest of the family will do as they always do.

The chapel does not look pleasant. We are hardly able to speak of the "tabernacles" as "amiable" to-day: the place appears to very poor advantage. Its population has decreased by about one half.

The

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