policy of insurance. This is a mere Romish way of prayer, as a staircase of penance, and of observances in the way of merit. It is coming to Christ just only as a superstitious soul goes to the priest with money to buy itself out of purgatory, or to get a bill of exemption. This may be coming to prayer, but it is not coming to Christ by prayer.

Having thus found Christ in prayer, the soul continues to commune with him in prayer, to throw itself upon him in prayer, daily, to walk with him by a life of faith in prayer, and to serve him by prayer, obedience, and the watchful performance of duty. It does all this now, more and more, not to find Christ, but as having found him; not to purchase anything, but out It is just an attempt to gain heaof love, as loving him, and being ven by works, by self-righteousness. loved by him; not to gain pardon The soul is on entirely a wrong and heaven by merit, but to obey | track, not towards Christ, but away Christ and to please him, to be made from him, not of repentance and more and more like him, and to be filled more and more with his fulness, in his knowledge and love. This is the life of faith entered into and maintained, mainly through the instrumentality of prayer. Prayer itself is a life.

But now, here is another path, although apparently the same way. Another man attempts to come to Christ by prayer, but without faith; to come to Christ, and to enter heaven by prayer, just as you would expect to enter to the enjoyment of a feast, or the exhibition of a great picture, by having bought your ticket, and presented it at the door of entrance. Every time such a soul comes to prayer, it is so much work done for wages expected. There is no humble, penitent looking of the soul to Christ in this case, and no sincere endeavour to look to him and rely upon him; and therefore, while this is the attitude of the soul, there can be no sight of him, no finding of him, no acquaintance with him. Christ is not what the soul is seeking in such a case, but safety; not holiness and healing by Christ, but a

faith, but of pride and unbelief. And yet it may seem to be the same track of prayer. Nay, it might be in the very same words of prayer. The self-same expressions, used by the soul in the first-supposed instance, as expressions of faith and love, might be written or printed in a book, and might be repeated and renewed by the soul in this second supposed instance, just as often and with just the same assiduity as in the first; and yet in the second case it would be a going away from Christ, while in the first case it was a coming to him; in the second case it would be a growing ignorance of Christ, while in the first case it was a growing acquaintance with him; in the second case it would be a course of selfishness and unbelief, while in the first case it was a process of humility and faith; in the second case it would be the ruin of the soul, while in the first case it was its salvation. In the one case it would be an attempt to be saved by works, which would be destruction; in the other an endeavour to be saved by Christ, which would be salvation.

This is the meaning of Paul, when "My Father's House." Paul declares that to understand its mysteries is impossible for the mortal mind, that its glories transcend human intelligence, that its secrets may not be whispered in the ear of man. And John, in words which are full of consolation, tells us that there former things are passed away.

he showed that the believing Gentiles, throwing themselves on Christ, were saved and became holy; when the unbelieving Jews, throwing themselves on their own merits in having kept the law, remained unholy, and were lost: "What shall we say then? That the Gentiles, which followed not after righteousness, have attained to righteousness, even the righteousness which is of faith. But Israel, which followed after the law of righteousness, hath not attained to the law of righteousness. Wherefore? Because they sought it not by faith, but as it were by the works of the law. For they stumbled at that stumbling-stone in Zion." Even so, a man following righteousness to get Christ, makes righteousness his saviour, and rejects Christ, throwing himself on his own righteousness, which in such a case is miserable pride, in unbelief, ignorance, and sin, not accepting Christ. But a man following Christ without righteousness, but to get righteousness in Christ, confesses and feels his own utter guilt and vileness, and throws himself on Christ alone, to be saved by grace, by faith, the mere free, rich, sovereign, and undeserved gift of God's love.-Cheever.

GLIMPSES OF GLORY. CANAAN was a divinely chosen type of heaven; and as thereinto of old went the spies, so have some-Christ, Paul, John-in very deed or in ecstatic vision, explored that supernal | clime, and have told us of it. The Saviour, in words that thrill us with their simplicity of grandeur and beautiful truth, named it to us as

Full of consolation. Indeed, yes! Heaven shall not be another earth. The cheeriest Christian, and he whose faith is strongest under trial, feels life to be too full of sorrows, and pains, and glooms, to wish it again repeated. The former things shall pass away. Below the sun there is nothing new; above the sun, thank God! there is!

And there shall not be a mixed life-some of the trials of earth together with greater happiness. No, the gold shall be without alloy. Evil memories shall be drowned in present joys. The former things are passed away.

They who dwell in this land of Beulah shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more. They have hungered and thirsted after righteousness, and now are blessed, for they are filled. No longer are they like harts panting after the waterbrooks. The river of life flows near. They have passed the desert, and have entered Canaan-a Canaan where flow sweets sweeter than milk and honey. Hungering and thirsting no more, they are free from those fleshly appetites for the possession of which shame almost mantled their cheeks in their lifetime. Mind is no longer a slave to body, the exercises of the intellect need no more be stayed to attend to the claims of the corporeal

self.

away."

"Former things are passed and those who should be bound together in bonds of closest sympathy are sundered by the disassociating ocean. National differences and customs, and modes of thought, prevent brotherly communion and concord, and help to stay some of the noblest enterprises of the Gospel.

Neither shall the sun light upon them, nor any heat. The air is often close here, and the sun hot, as we go on with our life labour; but it shall be otherwise there. Our toil shall never fatigue, nor shall come near us anything oppressive or harmful. There shall be no sudden changes of fortune-glowing seasons of unmeasured prosperity when we deny God. Not suddenly shall goldenwinged Fame embrace us, causing forgetfulness of the higher and bet-lost, some urged far away. No; for ter. Not burningly shall the sun arise, causing the seed just received to wither away. "Former things are passed away."

Nor shall the flames of persecution scorch us, nor we be saved as by fire and baptized in flame. The burning mount is left behind; we have gained Canaan's pleasant meads. No longer annoy us the sneers of blasphemers, the taunts of the world. We have passed through the fires; the dross has been purged. Pure gold needs no assaying.

And there was no more sea. No treacherous sea of storm. No longer while all seems fair, shall deadly elements be at work, and storms and tempests suddenly arise. No longer shall we be tossed about by winds which are contrary, and carried far from our desired haven into other coasts. No longer beaten about and driven over every sea. No whirlpool of passion shall engulf, no becalming drive us to despair. "Former things are passed away."

No sea of division. Now, long weary leagues divide those who love the Lord Jesus Christ in sincerity,

No sea of change. The bark of existence will not be now gliding on with prosperous gale, and then overtaken by stormy destruction. The fleet amid which we sail will be no more scattered; some companions

the" former things are passed away." The sea, never still, always in motion, now in light, now in shadow, ever changing, is the aptest similitude to our life. But not to our future life. Existence there is like an unruffled lake-deep, but still.

And John saw no temple therein. Not there, as here, will the Christian have to wait for the time of holy sacrifice, for the period of ordinances, for the troubling of the waters. Heaven is one universal temple, and the life of those therein is an uninterrupted worship. No longer are there special holy days, for it is ever day, and all that day is holy. No baptism is needed as a pledge of Christ's love, for all therein are assured of that; nor need we symbols in remembrance of him, for he is ever present. "Former things are passed away."

There shall be no night there. No night of pain. No restless tossings to and fro, longing for the morning of relief, and the rising of the healthful sun. No disease or weakness to stay us from the Lord's work. And no night of sorrow. No weeks of

darkness. No icy feeling coming to the heart that the light of life is gone, and the remainder of the pilgrimage must be pursued in gloom. No longer shall the lamp of hope, with which we were wont to illumine our forward path, be extinguished by an adverse wind. "The former things are passed away."

No night of intellect. No more mysteries. No more barriers to knowledge. No returning sorrowful at inability to learn further. No longer shall the ardent soul be confined by the body. In a spiritual body, fit for its residence, shall it expatiate through the universe, and gaze into the deepnesses of things. Streaming shall the light of knowledge flow into the mind. Communion with the Highest shall upraise the intellect, and universal purity shall place no bar to mental progress, and we shall be taught by the companionship of angels, advanced in knowledge above a Bacon or a Newton as much as these above the untutored boor.

till the break of day, even though it be with an angel. No more shall we

"feel an inward fighting,

Feel the fierceness of the strife,

Heart, and mind, and soul affrighting,
Of the powers of death and life."
No more shall duty find a foe in
passion, nor the heart-throne of
Christ be contested by Diabolus. In
the calm serenity of settled peace,
our powers shall be free to the ser-
vice that they love. The fighting
was before the home was won, but
once so won, it is secure for ever.
No more attacks to be parried, nor
dangerous enterprises to undertake.
"The former things are passed
away."

No night of death. Here the babe is snatched from the mother's arm, and the child from its tiny bed. The youth in his strength is struck down, and the maiden in her gay beauty fades, and the bride takes death for her husband, and the strong man is bowed down, and the queen falls low as she mounts the throne, and the author dies just as the world discovers the kingly soul in its midst. To the senate and the cottage, to the haunts of fashion and the love-holied home, death comes alike; and with his plaguebreath he depopulates a city, hundreds he engulfs in the waves, and thousands in their pride he cuts down in the battle-field. But not so "Former things are No night of temptation. No times in heaven. when all help seems cut off, when passed away." No night of death. the prayer is cold, the word veiled, No gradual, unhelpful sinking, till the heart hard, when Satan comes the power to move, to speak, to as an angel of light, and is wel- think, is gone. No long, vague comed as a friend. waiting for release. No thronging No night of conflict. No wrestling of dim shapes and formless sha

No night of doubt. No veiling of God's countenance, no becloudings of the sun, no mist to hide the path and conceal its dangers; when there come distrusts of the Allmerciful, and fears of the future, and the mind's eye is bedimmed, and the heart is frozen, and the soul, enthralled, loses its confidence, like the imprisoned John.

"THERE ARE NO GRAVES THERE."

LATE in the afternoon of a beautiful summer day, I entered a quiet graveyard, where slept one of my dearest friends. It occupied the brow of a hill, which, with many a knoll and graceful undulation, sloped to the green meadow, watered by a winding stream, now catching at its repeated curves the rays of the setting sun. On the left was a pleasant wood, where the sturdy pine and fruit-bearing beech concealed narrow paths to cool caves and mossy banks, while birches and the tremulous aspen, with the sweetscented willow, grew upon the right, and from beyond rose the curling smoke from the cottage homes. A