clearly demonstrate our enthusiasm by small, continuous efforts in an obscure circle, as by some flaming, heroic exertion on a great occasion. All the magnanimity of a philanthropist, all the zeal of an evangelist, all the courage of a martyr, all the love of a seraph, may be expressed in the humblest life. When on a small scale, the glory is not so palpable, but the quality is equally divine. Some one has said, "When you dip a cup of water out of the ocean, where is the blue?" The blue is there just the same, only a finer eye is required to see it. And if the mystic glory of great lives and actions seems lost in the small virtues of the vulgar mass, it is still there, and delights Him whose equal eye knows neither great nor small.

"Great things" are not necessary for the attainment of great character. This is strikingly manifest in the pattern life-the life of our Lord. For thirty years that life was entirely uneventful, unhistorical. He lived in a village, mixed with peasants, wrought at the bench, dwelt in a cottage. There was no great trial, like the temptation in the wilderness; no moving triumph, like the palm-strewing; no ecstasy, like the transfiguration; no humiliation, like the crown of thorns; no grief, like Gethsemane. Without dazzling episodes, striking situations, or tragic sorrows, without the dramatic, the uncommon, or the miraculous, He grew into the fullness of

that supreme character which commands the admiration and reverence of mankind. It is most encouraging to the obscure million to know that the noblest life attained its last completeness in the tamest scenes, unprompted, undisciplined by anything extraordinary. Use spiritually and faithfully a life of apparent trifles, and it shall furnish all you need. The poet speaks thus of one of his characters:

For her there had not needed dark heart-throes
Of agony; simple words sufficed,

And griefs that come to all, to bring her close,
And closer still to Christ.

If we be truly sincere, we shall not need heartthroes of agony or ecstasy, but simple words, joys, sorrows, and services will suffice to bring us near to Christ, and to make us like Him. "Seekest thou great things for thyself? seek them not." The least of His mercies is enough to awaken tenderest gratitude; the humblest posts are sufficient to discipline into absolute fidelity; pinpricks may mature sublime submissiveness; and the unrecorded toils and satisfactions of the common lot perfect true souls in all the graces of the Christian life.

Life is not a question of having much, being much, or doing much, but of the sincere love and service of God in any situation whatever. We sigh and strain after the strange, the splendid,

the distant, and the inaccessible, and miss the sweet and satisfying joys of familiar things. We murmur because we cannot visit foreign lands, when we might see heaven in a wild flower, and hear the music of the spheres in the humming of a bee; we envy "high life," when our cottage might be to us a kingdom; we are on the lookout for the phoenix, when God sends the bread of life by the raven; we waste our days in expecting the large and romantic which rarely come, whilst the humble and pure find familiar things full of beauty and blessing as a jeweller's apron is full of the dust of gold. Seek not "great things," seek great principles and graces; seek not great things for thyself, seek to serve and bless; and although men may call thee poor, Christ will whisper, " But thou art rich."

"

III

THE BRIGHT INTERPRETATION OF DARK

THINGS

I will open my dark saying upon the harp.-Ps. 49: 4.

T

HE psalmist thus declares that the most painful enigmas of life are capable of a bright solution. At one time these enigmas perplexed him greatly, and filled him with anxiety bordering upon despair; but at length he had seen through them, seen light beyond them, seen that there were reasons for rational consolation and glorious hope. He takes his harp from the willow, and expounds with music and song the dark sayings which life thrusts upon us. Glance at the questions which overshadow us.

The first dark, bitter enigma is sin. A dark question surely-nay, the darkest of all. There is nothing really like sin in all the rest of the world outside human nature; there are appearances that correspond with it, but nothing that really answers to it. No malign disease works within vegetation, sullying the lily and cankering the rose; no secret malady clouds the brain of animals, confusing their instincts and making their existence a curse; no subtle poison is in the

blood of the bird, making the eagle's eye dim and jarring the music of the forest: but there is in human nature a malign principle and power that we agree to call sin-an element that works foolishness in the understanding, corrupts the heart with egotism, and brings into the life weakness and disharmony, dishonor and misery. All the mischiefs and miseries of the individual and the race spring from the unreasonableness, selfishness, and willfulness of this dark element which has established itself in human nature. "What Ishall I do to be saved?"-to be saved from the curse of personal evil. In Christ, and in Christ alone, has that darkest problem received adequate solution. He makes clear the gracious doctrine of forgiveness, heals all our diseases, and by His Spirit makes us sharers in His own transcendent holiness. Perplexed by the mystery of evil, burdened by its memories, plagued by its tenacity and power, we find peace in the Lamb of God who taketh away the sin of the world. Open your dark saying on the harp that the redeeming Christ has strung for you. Sing yourself into pardon, peace, courage, and victory; sing yourself out of sin, sing yourself into the fullness and gladness of a spotless life.

The enigma of suffering immediately emerges out of sin. Everywhere we are met by spectacles of suffering. We are all afflicted in mind, body, and estate. And, as expressed in this