minds upon earth, hostile or allied, envying or admiring, entertain a doubt that the blow that strikes down England would spread universal devastation, moral, political, and commercial. What is the secret spring of this great power-this overshadowing influence?

Traversing every street of this great city are conduitpipes, silent and unseen, but carrying up to all heights and down to all depths water for refreshment and purification, which thousands enjoy often without a thought whence it comes, or how it is supplied. Even so with the unseen and unheard currents of truth and light, and love and justice, and morality and virtue, that rush along every department of national life-all branches of that celestial river whose "streams make glad the city of our God." It is England's Protestant faith that has made her what she is. It is a pure and primitive Christianity in the nation's heart that gives her the health and vigour and energy to think, and do, and dare deeds of no ordinary splendour. The secret of her greatness is concealed by that greatness. Her streets, on which is heard the ceaseless beat of traffic-her warehouses stored with the gathered products of every clime-her rivers and docks crowded with the ships of all waters— her royal palaces and noble halls, are the effects that hide, not the causes that create, her prosperity. Every fair and attentive reader of her history or student of her condition is irresistibly driven to trace her prosperity and greatness and still-increasing power to her distinctive moral and religious character. It is here that the springs of her greatness leap forth. Stop or poison them, and her leaves will wither and her fruits fall off untimely and unripe.

But, strange as it may appear, Russia, Austria, and France do not approve of our greatness. They see that

Protestantism is the root of our national life, our religious and civil freedom, our prosperity and order-and strength to repel aggression. But these blessings they do not appreciate in us, and the best of them they do not want for themselves. Above all, they hate the freedom with which we speak and write respecting the affairs of the world; and as their own deeds hate the light, they are furious at our casting light on them. Our religion does not suffer us to crush the liberties of others in order to aggrandize ourselves. It abhors the Jesuit maxim that kings may make promises to their subjects, and break them at their convenience; it repudiates concordats with the Pope which are really vassalage to a priest. Therefore England is hated by Jesuit, Emperor, and Czar; therefore they are gathering round her in hostile preparations, and absorbing, or soon to absorb, into their hordes all who love darkness.

"England," says Merle D'Aubigne, "owes everything to the Reformation. It is the Gospel that has given to England our antipodes. Should England forsake the faith of the Bible, the crown would fall from her head." "There is the strongest reason to believe," says Dr. Croly, "that as Judea was chosen for the especial guardianship of the original revelation, England has been chosen for the especial guardianship of Christianity that is the pure Gospel." It seems as if the solemn prophecy, "The kingdom of God shall be taken from you (Jews), and given to a nation bringing forth the fruits thereof," were fulfilled in the present historic place of our country. Our country, if assailed, will be assailed on this ground above all others. The sap of the Jesuit within and the assault of the despot without are to be looked for, and that very soon.

In such a prospect let us see what our National De

fences should be. The strengthening of our army, the encouragement of our volunteers, the casting of cannon, the iron-plated ships now going on with almost prophetic significance, are right, and dutiful, and urgent. These are the prescriptions of common sense-of patriotism and policy. Our present practical conduct is the best guarantee of peace-it is defence of England and defiance to no honest man. There is every reason to believe that this will be carried out with vigour and efficiency, whatever expense may be incurred. But our outward is not our only defence. The fountain of all is our Protestant Christianity, assailed by the BroadChurch school on the one side, and poisoned by the Tractarians on the other, and displaced from our Protestant Constitution by latitudinarian politicians. The two first corrupt the fountain at its source and in its rills. The last intercepts the approach of its waters from that Constitution to the perpetuity and strength of which they are indispensable.

HAT the halt and the blind, and the deaf and dumb have been accepted as good enough for the ministry and functions of religion, is notorious. This is not the place for discussing those inner and strictly spiritual qualifications which are essential to one who claims to be admit

ted into the sacred office of a Christian teacher. But we may be excused for expressing our utter amazement that men should be admitted into holy orders who are deficient in that very power without which they cannot convey their stores of learning and lessons of piety to those who assemble in order to hear what will instruct, or comfort, or convince. There are various kinds of vocal invalids in the pulpit.

There is the almost inaudible whisperer. He reads. his manuscript held close to his lips, sotto voce, as if his only hearer were some one standing a few feet off, into

whose ear alone he means to pour such information as he has collected. Such a man very soon enjoys the luxury of preaching to empty pews. Like the primitive speakers in "unknown tongues," he speaks eventually to himself alone. He performs hebdomadal pantomime, but is denied the pleasure of seeing anybody looking at the spectacle.

There is the cold, unconcerned, easy, off-hand reader type. He reads his sermon as he reads his newspaperchattering and talking over the most sacred themes with an apathy perfectly freezing. He does duty, by which he understands getting through twenty minutes' talk of commonplaces, insensible to the object, and careless of the effect of what he says. He chops theology as a roadmaker breaks stones, and the sooner it is over and the easier he feels the task, the more successfully he thinks he has done the duty of the day.

There is, next, the stilty preacher. In private he speaks naturally and well, but the moment he mounts his pulpit he assumes a declamatory tone of voice singularly unnatural and ineffective. He has lost all mastery over his voice. His voice governs him, not he his voice. Interrogations, expressions of surprise, delight, sorrow, joy, are all called out in the same pitch in which a sergeant calls over the regimental roll. Earnest hearers may pick out bits of instruction, but the multitude stare and marvel at the transformation of which the speaker becomes the victim when he leaves his study or his vestry and ascends the pulpit.

There is, next, the monotonous preacher. He has, perhaps, a good voice, and is in all likelihood a good He begins his sermon as if he had first sounded a pitch-pipe on A minor, and on this note he pronounces every word from the beginning of his sermon to the end.

man.