loss is another's gain. The rain that spoils your hay makes. your neighbor's corn grow the faster. The fall in wheat that cuts down your profits will help the poor widow in yonder cottage to buy bread for her hungry little mouths next winter. Your loss is another man's gain. Don't be selfish.”

On a grand scale, sometimes, this lesson is taught. When a certain ambitious self-seeker once clutched at the dominion of all Europe, stern Disappointment met him in his path of invasion, flung a Russian snow-storm in his face, and out of the tiny snow-flakes wove a white shroud to wrap the flower of French chivalry. The lesson that the proud usurper would not learn at Aspern and Eylau was taught him in the agonies of Borodino, and in ghastly blood-prints on the frozen banks of the Beresina. His successor, the third Napoleon, has been taught, lately, the same lesson: "All Europe does not belong to you.” So, too, have we, in the defeat of our humbler plans of self-seeking, been made to hear the sharp teacher say: "Do not be selfish. God did not make this world just for you. Other people have rights as well as yourself." This lesson was worth all it cost us.

A second lesson which Disappointment has taught us is, that our losses are not only gains, sometimes, to others, but very often the richest gains to ourselves. In our short-sighted ignorance, we had "devised a way," and set our hearts upon it. Had we been allowed to pursue it, we must have been led by it to ruin.

The record-book of every Christian's life has some pages in it which were written at the bidding of that severe teacher, Disappointment. Tears may have blotted and blurred the page at the time. But as we turn over that page now, and read it in the light of experience, we can write beneath it: "Thank God for those losses! they were my everlasting gain. Thank God for those bereavements! they have saved my soul from being bereaved of heaven. All things work together for good to them that love God; to them who are the called according to his purpose."

My friend, if you and I ever reach our Father's house, we shall look back and see that the sharp-voiced, rough-visaged teacher, Disappointment, was one of the best guides to train us for it. He gave us hard lessons. He often used the rod. He often led us into thorny paths. He sometimes stripped off a load of luxuries; but that only made us travel the freer and the faster on our heavenward way. He sometimes led us down into the valley of the death-shadow; but never did the promises read so sweetly as when spelled out by the eye of faith in that very valley. Nowhere did he lead us so often, or teach us such sacred lessons, as at the cross of Christ. Dear, old, rough-handed teacher! We will build a monument to thee yet, and crown it with garlands, and inscribe on it: Blessed be the memory of DISAPPOINTMENT.—Rev. Theodore L. Cuyler, N. Y.

SPIRITUAL DYSPEPTICS.

There is a class of weak-handed and feeble-kneed professors in Christ's church who are self-made invalids. Their spiritual debility is the direct result of their own sins and short-comings. In their case, as in the physical hygiene, disease is the inevitable punishment of transgression against the laws of health.

Is not the inebriate's bloated and poisoned frame the immediate legacy of his bottle? Is not a shattered nervous system the tormenting bequest which a high-pressure career of sensuality leaves to the transgressor? The indolence which never earns its daily bread cannot earn the appetite to enjoy it; the gluttony which gorges the stomach is but fattening an early banquet for the worms. Dyspepsia is only God's appointed health-officer, stationed at the gateway of excess, to warn off all who approach it, and to punish those who will persist in entering the forbidden ground. In like manner spiritual disease is the inevitable result of committed sin, or neglect of religious duty. It requires no profound skill to detect the cause of Mr. A.'s dyspepsia, or Deacon B.'s spiritual palsy, `or poor Mr. C.'s leprosy. How can a Christian be healthy who never

works? How can a man's faith be strong who never enters his closet? How can a man's benevolence be warm who never gives? A want of appetite for giving always brings on a lean visage in the church; but I do like to hear my neighbor M. pray at the monthly concert, for the fluency of devotion is quickened by his fluency of purse. He dares to ask God's help in the salvation of sinners, for he is doing his own utmost too. And I have known one resolute, sagacious, Christ-loving woman to do in a mission-school what Florence Nightingale did in the hospitals of Scutari; that is, teach the nurses how to cure, as well as the sick how to recover.

If this brief paragraph falls under the eye of any spiritual dyspeptic, let us offer him two or three familiar counsels. My friend, your disease and debility are your own fault, not your misfortune. It is not a visitation of God," but a visitation of the devil, that has laid you on your back, and made you well-nigh useless in the church, in the Sabbath-school, and in every enterprise of Christian charity. Having brought on your own malady, you must be your own restorer, by the help of the divine physician.-T. L. Cuyler.

THE FULLNESS OF GOD.

What a transcendent idea that is in Paul's prayer for his brethren: "That ye might be filled with all the fullness of God!" When, therefore, we meet with a man or woman who almost never disappoints us; who is always "abounding" in the work of the Lord; who serves God on every day as well as the Sunday; who is more anxious to be right than to be rich; and who can ask God's blessing on the bitterest cup;—when we meet such a one, we know that down in the clefts of the soul is Christ, the well-spring!

In a thousand ways will the inward fountain of Christian principle make itself visible. We see it in the merchant who gives Christ the key of his safe, and never soils it with a single dirty shilling. We see it in the statesman who cares more to

win God's smile on his conscience than a re-election to office. We recognize it in the minister who is more greedy for souls than for salary. We see it in the young man who would rather endure a comrade's laugh than a Saviour's frown; in the maiden who obeys Christ sooner than fashion. I sometimes detect this well spring of cheerful piety in the patient mother, whose daily walk with God is a fount of holy influence amid her household. I know of poor men's dwellings in which grows a plant of contentment that is an exotic rarely found in marble mansions. Its leaves are green and glossy; it is fed from the Well.

In dying chambers we have often heard this spiritual fountain playing, and its murmur was as musical as the tinkle of a brook

"In the leafy month of June."

Ferfect love had cast out fear. Peace reigned. Joys sparkled in the sunlight of God's countenance. There was a well there which death could not dry-the "well of water springing up into everlasting life."-T. L. Cuyler.

man.

THE NEW RELIGION.

The great word of religion has always been piety. To feel right towards God, and to worship Him in the acceptable way, have always been considered the chief if not the sole duties of Docrines have been set forth and emphasized as the quickener and support of sentiment. Rituals have been elaborated as the most fitting language and gymnastics of devotion. Fast and penance, gorgeous rites and pomps and paraphernalia have been invoked to deepen and give emphasis, volume and articulation to the soul's worship of Deity.

It has been almost universally held that God was infinitely better pleased with prayers addressed to Him than with silent discharge of duty, sweet resignation to the inevitable ordinations of nature, or the tender and helpful service of men. Grace at meals, an exhortation in the conference-room, an hour

in church, a subscription to some mission or pious enterprise, have always been held and thought more acceptable in the sight of heaven than honesty in business, fidelity to private and public trusts, personal culture, and consecration to the noblest human interests and aims. Consequently Christian ethics and exhortations have chiefly run in pietistic grooves. The face has been turned skyward. The world has been looked upon as merely a point of departure, and the duties of man to man, and the sweet and holy charities of life, have been ignored or forgotten. This is the old religion, of which not a little still remains.

Those who study carefully the significance of Christ's teachings and example, reading between the lines of the gospels and feeling the spirit that still animates the words that were written in sympathetic ink, will find that with him religion was chiefly if not entirely philanthropy. He did not ignore Deity, he identified the Father with the child, and made loving service of the child the truest and most acceptable worship of the Father. Justice, mercy, kindness, charity, forgiveness, selfsacrifice these are the supreme Christian virtues. He did not ignore piety, but made the motive and soul of philanthropy. He does not forbid worship, but gives it a new and sublimer form in human helpfulness and uplifting. And whatever is done to alleviate the distress, ameliorate the condition, improve the morals, educate and elevate any and every class of men everywhere on earth, is in accordance with the principles and spirit of true Christianity, and part of the new religion whose essence is philanthropy, and whose love for God is the inspiration and result of helpful service of men.

The old religion has kept the ground and had things pretty much its own way hitherto. But within fifty years what is truest and most central in Christianity has got expression, and now utters itself with new clearness and force every day. The community has breathed in the new spirit, and its lungs dilate and its heart expands with the quickening influence. The age is beginning to glow with an enthusiasm for humanity. Never