thetic nature they must, of course, submit to some sacrifice, whatever it may be, whether of time, or of work, or of money; but they always sacrifice that which they, at the moment, can most easily dispense with. In the story related above, it was much easier for the niggardly clergyman to drop a few kind words than to part with a shilling, but it was likewise much easier to the thriftless, perhaps drunken sailor, to drop a shilling than to speak a few words of Christian consolation to the poor fellow's soul. Both just tried to rid themselves of an unpleasant feeling in the easiest possible way, and then to be done with it. And so we often drop our coppers or sixpences into a beggar's hand, or we assist a poor epileptic fellow on the public road till the policeman takes charge of him, or we subscribe to a charitable institution after having read of the shocking state of things which it tries to remedy, and the next moment we think no more about it, leaving it to the beggar, the epileptic, and the charitable institution to see how they may get on without us. All this, if not proceeding from the pharisaical motive of self-righteousness, is compassion; and, as far as human society is concerned, it undoubtedly has its value, and is productive of much good, though it is not what the Gospel means by charity. It is a relative good in the sight of God, inasmuch as it is the manifestation of a passion which His own hand has implanted in human nature. And though it is insufficient to cover even so much as a single one of our countless sins, yet it is one of those attributes of our nature which render it capable of being saved, and which distinguish human nature, however deeply fallen, from the nature of devils who cannot be saved. Compassion is undoubtedly a remnant of the Divine Image. Certainly, we eannot claim heaven on the ground of our being compassionate beings. But if we knew no such thing as compassion at all, every attempt to fit us for heaven would prove a failure.

But although compassion often prompts us to perform deeds which resemble the deeds of God, yet we are by nature unlike God, because, through sin, our compassion is without charity. Compassion can only be seen in its true character when, through Christ, it is re-united to love. Love, or what is the same, charity, seeks not its own, but the true peace and happiness of others. It is not content with satisfying its own momentary impulses, but it wants to bring about the complete restoration of the sufferer, and to secure his permanent happiness. This real charity is beautifully exemplified in the parable of the good Samaritan, or, as I like to think of it, "The Story of the Oil and the Twopence." It is evident from that good man's conduct that not his own satisfaction, but the poor Jew's perfect restoration, was his sole object, into which he threw himself heart and soul. "He had," we read, "compassion on him," and so "he went to him, and bound up his wounds, pouring in oil and wine." But had he only been actuated by the momentary impulse of compassion, he would perhaps have contented himself with riding on to the next place to lodge information of the poor man's state. Or he might even have gone so far as to "set him on his own beast and to bring him to an inn;" but most

likely he would not have " taken out " his "twopence, and given it to the host," nor would he have said: "Take care of him, and whatsoever thou spendest more, when I come again I will pay thee." A man who goes that length shows more than mere compassion. Here is love, such as no brother can show in greater measure to his brother. He is not content with seeing the poor man helped for the present moment and extricated out of his fearful and dangerous position, but he wants to see him completely restored. He thinks about the morrow and the day after the morrow, and he calculates what the man will require before he can be entirely restored, and in order to guard him against every discomfort he pledges himself with the host for the whole expense.

Now when we look both at the oil which he poured into the man's wound, and at the twopence which he gave to the host, we notice some features in the work of charity which deserve our attention.

First, if true charity prompts us, we give our own persons to the work, sacrificing a portion of our own comfort for the well-being of our suffering neighbours.

Oil and wine, and especially the former, are valuable appliances for travellers in the East. It is well known what a refreshing and invigorating power the oil imparts to the body after a fatiguing day's journey in the heat of an Eastern sun. No wonder, then, that whatever article the traveller may dispense with, his oil-bottle is kept to the last. It contains, what is to him the elixir of life; and for an Arab to give away his oil on a journey, would be to give away a portion of his own self. Now, if we look at the good Samaritan's conduct in this light, it teaches us the great truth that true charity begins with self-sacrifice. Usually, when we do something in the way of charity, we are inclined to give our twopence, but to keep the oil to ourselves. We hand a gift to a collector, or we subscribe to a society, or we drop a trifle into a box, or we send an alms through a servant, or a donation through a friend. All this is very good indeed. But why do we not, in addition, devote an hour a day, or at least a couple of hours a week, to "visiting the fatherless and the widows in their affliction," to giving consolation to a poor sick one, or speaking a word in season to the weary? Some will answer, "We have no time for it;" others, "We have no talent; " others again, "This is a sort of work which is better done by a city missionary, or a Bible-woman," &c. There may be some truth in each of these pretexts, but let us be honest and speak the whole truth, and confess that we do not like the work. We do not like to part even with a few drops of the oil of our own comforts and pleasures. You have no time, you say? But have you not a couple of hours to spare on Sunday. Could you not once a week sacrifice a walk in summer, or an evening party in winter? You have no talent. But what talent is there required for just stepping into a humble cottage and kindly inquiring after a poor invalid's condition, or a poor family's difficulties, and dropping a word of sympathy, consolation, or advice? Do not think that you cannot oil their wounds because you have no talent for giving them a religious address, or for offering up a prayer. Your very personal appearance,

your kind face, your friendly talk, the squeeze of your hand, and the smile of your lips, are already so many drops of oil, spreading a sweet savour all through the place, and flowing with refreshing and cheering effect into the wounded hearts. We, who are privileged with all the comforts of life-who, if distressed, have plenty of friends to console us, and often more visitors than we want-we have no conception of what a poor man who is in trouble, or a poor widow who is burdened with cares, feels when a stranger steps into their room as a friend, evidently impelled by kind and disinterested love, to brighten up, for a few moments, the gloom of their day, and to encourage them in the struggles which they have to go through. To them your visit is something like what the appearance of a consoling angel would be to you at the moment when grief makes you feel as if you were left alone in the world. It is true, the room looks dark and dreary, and the persons are often anything but attractive, and what they tell you is the old story of disasters, and disappointments, and difficulties, most of which are likely enough the consequences of their own folly, as everybody can see except themselves; and, no doubt, it would be much more agreeable for you to sit down with your friends in your drawing room, to enjoy pleasant conversation and a little music. But true charity, such as the good Samaritan's, is prepared for such disagreeable experiences. When he alighted from his beast, he was quite aware that he was going to soil himself with dust and blood, and that he would have to walk on his feet for the remainder of his day's journey. And when he stooped down to the poor sufferer, he did not expect to receive one drop of oil from that man, but to lose all his own. And so he came to the inn rather fatigued, and certainly not in a position to present himself in respectable company. And yet he must have felt inwardly refreshed, as if he had been anointed with the costliest spikenard from head to foot. And to the eye which looks not on outward things, but on the heart, each stain of blood on his soiled garments must have appeared like a brilliant jewel adorning the royal robe of a prince.

But poor people, widows and orphans, invalids and infirm ones, are not the only persons whom true charity cares for. There are many perhaps amongst our respectable friends and neighbours, who are sorely wounded and left half dead by an enemy much more malignant than poverty or disease. We know, perhaps, a young friend whose soul is almost slain by the poison of bad books or evil company. Or we are familiar with a household which, though keeping up a respectable appearance in society, yet suffers fearfully from a bad spirit pervading its family

life.

Or we know a friend or relative who, charmed by the attractions of the world, pursues a course which must end in everlasting perdition. These are victims of evil, who, as much as the poor and the afflicted, are entitled to our compassion. Here nothing can be done by gifts. If we can do anything at all it is only through personal interposition. Now-a-days society is so constituted that one can scarcely try to exercise an influence for good upon such individuals without being looked upon as an intruder

and a busy body. With regard to the moral sufferings of the respectable classes, social custom has, as it seems, sanctioned the conduct of the Priest and the Levite. When you daily witness the sad effects of evil habits or bad training in your next-door neighbour's family, you are permitted to feel compassion, but not to show charity; to speak about his faults to everybody but himself. A line of demarcation is drawn between you and him, which it would be unwise to step over uninvited. And yet there are moments in every man's life in which you may have an opportunity of speaking a word in season to him across that line. Charity seizes those moments because it cannot refrain from continually asking itself, "How can I help that unhappy man?" Perhaps we may bring that erring young man into a better way by gently drawing him into our familiar circle. Perhaps we may find opportunity of dropping a useful observation to that disorderly family, by occasionally paying them a friendly visit. We do not know, we cannot possibly tell beforehand, where and when a few drops from our oil-bottle may be eagerly desired and thankfully received. Perhaps such visits are not exactly what we should choose for our recreation. An evening spent with Christian friends or at a religious meeting would be more congenial to our tastes. But, I repeat, charity's first question is not, how to enjoy, but how to help. To the Son of God the communion which He enjoyed in the bosom of His Father must have been much more congenial than His intercourse with a world lying in wickedness.

But secondly, when we look at the oil and the twopence of the good Samaritan, we learn the truth that charity not only prompts us to devote our persons to the work, but also to give our means to enable others to do it where we cannot do it ourselves. It is not uncommon for some charitable people to spend only the oil of their presence upon the poor sufferers, and to keep their twopence in their pockets. Of course this observation concerns not those charitable souls who are themselves poor, or have only as much as will secure them against embarrassment. Even if they give no more than a few words of genuine Christian sympathy, they undoubtedly are the greatest givers, because they give their all. They are themselves living oil-bottles, filled with costly spikenard, the sweet savour of which the Lord smells with delight. But there are other friends of charity who, it may be, are able speakers on its platform, or active members of committees, or zealous deacons of churches, or regular visitors of poor people, and yet, although they may have hundreds or thousands of pounds at their banker's, never gave so much as twopence in real charity. Certainly such persons, high as we may rank them, compared with the Priest and the Levite, sink to the dust contrasted with the Samaritan. Had our blessed Lord loved us with only a love such as theirs, He would merely have favoured us with His teaching but left us unsaved by His blood. It may be truly asserted that the charity of such persons the less worth the greater the amount of money which they leave unemployed, and that every shilling which swells their treasure, cuts a piece from the robe of righteousness which they are trying to weave for

is