a prison, but redolent of the virgin air of liberty, he condescends to baptize what had been a bond of harsh necessity and fear between two men, Philemon and Onesimus, into a bond of Christian brotherhood and love.

The style, too, and tone are different. Paul's "token," to be sure, "is in every Epistle." His presence proclaims itself by divers infallible marks: a kindly and earnest introduction, fervor of spirit, a close train of argument, winding on to end in a tail of fire, a digressive movement, short bursts of eloquence, sudden swells of devotion, audible yearnings of affection, strong and melting advices, minute remembrances, and a rich and effectual blessing at the close. But to some of his Epistles, the description and denunciation of sin give a dark, oppressive grandeur. Witness the 1st chapter of the Romans, which reminds us of God looking down upon the children of men, "to see if any did understand or know God," and beckoning on the deluge, as he says, "They are altogether become filthy; there is none that doeth good, no, not one." Others sparkle with the light of immortality, and might have been penned by the finger of Paul's "Resurrection-body." Others glow with a deep, mild, autumnal luster, as if reflected from the face of him he had seen as one born out of due time; they are full of Christ's love. Some, like the book of Hebrews, rise into rich rhetoric, from intricate and laborious argument, and contain little that is personally characteristic. Others are simple as beatings of his heart. On one or two, the glory of the Second Advent lies so brightly, that the gulf of death is buried in the radiance; in others, his own approaching departure, with its circumstances of suffering and of triumph, fills the field of view; and he says, "I am now ready to be offered, and the time of my departure is at hand."

Such are the letters of Paul-letters which, like the works, large or small, of all the great, seem to descend from, instead of overtopping, the writer. And we try to complete the image of the man, by piecing together those broken fragments of his soul-broken, though all seeking and tending to unity. His

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life, after all, was the Poem; he himself is our Epistle." A wondrous life it was. Whether we view him, with low bent head and eager eye, at the feet of Gamaliel; or sitting near Stephen's stoning, disdaining to wet his hands, but wetting his soul in his blood; or, under a more entire possession of his fanaticism, haling men and women to prison; or, far before his comrades on the way to Damascus, panting like a hound when his scent of game is getting intolerable; or lifting up one last furious glance through his darkening eyes to the bright form and face of Jesus; or led by the hand, the corpse of his former self, into the city, which had been waiting in panic for his coming; or "rolling his eyes in vain to find the day," as Ananias enters; or let down from the wall in a basket-the Christianity of the Western world suspended on the trembling rope; or bashful and timid, when introduced to Cephas and the other pillars of the Church, who, in their turn, shrink at first from the Tiger of Tarsus, tamed though he be; or rending his garments at Lystra, when they are preparing him divine honors; or, with firm yet sorrowful look, parting with Barnabas at Antioch; or in the prison, and after the earthquake, silent, unchained, still as marble, while the jailer leaps in trembling, to say, "What must I do to be saved?" or turning, with dignified resentment, from the impenitent Jews to the Gentiles; or preaching in the upper chamber, Eutychus alive, through sleep and death; or weeping at the ship's side at Miletus; or standing on the stairs at Jerusalem, and beckoning to an angry multitude; or repelling the charge of madness before Festus, more by his looks and his folded arms, than by his words; or calm, as the figure at the ship's head, amid the terrors of the storm; or shaking off the viper from his hand a if with the

"Silent magnanimity of Nature and her God;"

or, in Rome, cherishing the chain like a garment; or, with shackled arm, writing those words of God, "never to be bound;" or confronting Nero, as Daniel did his lions in the

den, and subduing him under the mere stress of soul; or, at last, yielding his head to the axe, and passing away to receive the "Crown of Life" the Lord was to confer upon him; wherever, and in whatever circumstances, Paul appears, his na

on,

ture, like a sun, displays itself entire, in its intensity, its earnestness, its clear honesty, its incessant activity, its struggle to include the world in its grasp--but is shaded, as evening draws into milder hues, tenderer traits, and a holier effulgence. And though the light went down in darkness and blood, its relict radiance still shines upon us like the Parthenon, which seemed "carved out of an Athenian sunset." Who that witnessed the persecutor on his way to Damascus, could have predicted that a noon of such torrid flame could so tenderly and divinely die; and that the name of Paul, when uttered now, should come to the Christian ear, as if carried on the breath of that "south wind which blew softly" while he and the Everlasting Gospel were sailing together past the Cretan shore to Rome?

CHAPTER X V.

PETER AND JAMES.

THE poetry of Peter lies more in his character than in his writings, although both display its unequivocal presence. His impetuosity, his forwardness, his outspoken utterance, his mistakes and blunders, his want of tact, his familiarity with his master, his warm-heartedness, his simplicity of character, render him the Oliver Goldsmith of the New Testament. It was owing to the child-like temperament of genius, blended with peculiar warmth of heart, that he on one occasion took Jesus aside, and began to rebuke him—that he said, on another, " thou shalt never wash my feet;" but added immediately, on being told what it imported, "Lord, not my feet only, but my hands and my head" -that he muttered on the Mount of the Transfiguration, the supremely absurd words, spoken as if through a dream, “Let us make here three tabernacles, one for thee, one for Moses, and one for Elias"-that he drew his sword, and cut off the ear of Malchus-that he adventured on the water where Christ was walking that he was the spokesman of the twelve, always ready, whether with sense or with kindly nonsense--and that his affectionate nature was grieved when Christ asked at him the third time, "Lovest thou me?" With this temperament consort his faults; his boldness breaks down when danger appears, as has often happened with men of the poetical temperament; even in his denial of Christ, we see the fervor of the man --it is with oaths and curses, for his very sin has an emphasis with it. And in fine keeping, too, with this, are the tears produced by Christ's look (Christ knew that for Peter a look was

enough)-fast, fiery, bitter, and renewed, it is said, whenever he heard the cock crow, till his dying day.

The change produced on Peter after the resurrection is very singular. We can scarce at first recognize the blunderer on Transfiguration Hill, the sleeper in Gethsemane, the gravelystupid and unconsciously impudent rebuker of Jesus, the openmouthed, grown-up child, in the solemn president of Pentecost, the bold declaimer at the "gate called Beautiful," the dignified captive sisted before the rulers and the high-priests, the minister of divine justice standing with the javelin of death over Ananias and Sapphira, the thaumaturgist, whose long evening shadow swept and cured sick streets, and before whom an angel opened the prison-doors, or the first embassador to the Gentile world. But such a change has often been exemplified in persons of remarkable character, under the pressure of peculiar circumstances, or through the force of great excitement. The story of the first Brutus, although probably a mythic fable, contains in it a wide truth, inclosing a hundred facts within it. "Call no man happy, till he is dead." Call no man stupid, till he be dead. Give the god within the man fair play, feed him with food convenient for him, and he may in due time produce a divine progeny. The Atlantean burden will often awaken the Atlantean strength to bear it. In Peter-the forward, the rash, but the loving, the sincere, and the simple-minded-there slumbered a wisdom and sagacity, a fervor and an eloquence, which the first touch of the fiery tongue of Pentecost aroused into an undying flame, to become a light, a glory, and a defense around the infant Church. 'Desertion," which Foster has recorded as one grand ally to "decision of character," did its wonted work on him. Left by Christ foremost in the gap, a portion of Christ's spirit was bestowed on him, and his native faculty-great but uncultured -was effectually stirred up. Remorse, too, had wrung his heart; tears had been his burning baptism-and let those who have experienced tell how high the soul sometimes springs to the sting of woe. The new birth of intellect, like the natural birth of man, and the new birth of God's Spirit, is fre

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