WORSHIP: ITS MEANING AND INFLUENCE.

A SERMON.

Delivered in the Lome-street Hall on Sun day morning, 3rd February, by Samuel Bdger. "It is good for mo to draw near to God."— Psalm 73 v. 28.

These words very well express the Psalmist's conception of the true value and power of worship. In speaking of idols, he says, " They that make them are like unto them, so is every one that trusteth in them," which is one very forcible way of putting the im jportant influence of all worship. We necessarily become assimilated to the object or being we worship—fall under >the power of the ideas contained ■-therein. Paul, In picturing the moral ■condition of the Gentile world, gives a similar view. It was sunk in corrup tion chiefly through the influence of a debased and debasing worship. His objections to the narrowness of Judaism are founded upon the same thought. An exclusive religion made them a j>roud and narrow-minded people. Every reformer, in every sphere, has had, and has his eye on the popular religion, in accordance with the saying, " Let me make the hymns of the people, and I care not who makes the laws." ff he -does not begin there, he will certainly have to come to it at last ; for to move the masses of the people powerfully, and permanently in any direction, it is essential in some way to in fluence and mould the religious life. Hence the tenacity -with which con servatism resists innovations in wor ship ; and all selfish priestcraft shuts out any higher and nobler views of God. For, to ohange either the worship ■or the ideas involved in it, is fraught with results that no one can foresee. Do away with the Athanasian Creed, with its disgraceful damnatory clause, and how much more will follow 1 Eradicate from the minds of the people the doctrine of eternal torments, as is now being rapidly done, and you have destroyed the whole religious system that appeals to the cowardly super stitious fears of man, with how much cruelty from human life God only knows. Put an end to religious initia tion by ceremony, and you have thrown the people upon the sublime influences that are purely spiritual; necessitating wide and intense changes in Everything that religion touches. It is worth a good deal of study really to understand this power of worship and to what ends it may be made effective. 1. What, then, is the meaning and secret power of worship? There are two opposite extremes we shall have to avoid if we wish to get at its real, pure, and divine influence—the extreme of superstition, and that of sceptical rationalism ; fatal in opposite directions. On the side of superstition there are two ideas which, no thoughtful mind will hesitate to reject; they depend one on the other, and have been fruitful in evils beyond all computation. (1) That worship can be anything given or offered by man to God, and acceptable to him, whether in the shape of sacrifices, offerings, or praises; and (2) That such offerings, gifts, or sacrifices, can have an influence on him—on his intentions or actions toward us. The two go together, and are probably inseparable. The second -could not be without the first.; and the first would lose all its interest and advantage without the second. These two errors characterised all heathen idolatry in broad distinction from Christianity ; although we have seen •some wise men among the Gentiles rising to the Christian view, and great numbers of nominal Christians sinking down to the idolatrous view. While the popular mythologies represent the gods ■as subject to human passions, and, therefore, likely to be influenced, propitiated, and bribed by the same means as human beings, it is the honour and charm of Christianity that it represents God as infinitely above this in a sublime self-sufficiency and a boundless benovelence. God is mani festly too rich and glorious for any thing to be added to His nature, or for Him to receive anything from man. He is too great in his love, and too change less in his nature, to need or to be capable of being propitiated by anything that man can either do or give. As believers in Christ we cannot but ac knowledge this; and yet how singularly inconsistent we are with it. Going into some heathen temple, and looking on those profuse ceremonies, we laugh at the idea of the gods they worship being moved thereby; and yet coming into our own temple we fail to see the incongruity of supposing that the God we wor ship can be moved by our ceremonies. We look with pity upon that poor mother offering her child for the favour of her god, and upon those really enormous sacrifices that are cheerfully, though painfully made, as though they could have any effect; and then we hardly hesitate to suppose thatour poor worship of siagingandpray ing thatdoes not cost us one hundredth part as much, and probably is not half as sincere, will secure us the favour and guide the purposes of our God. Strange that we should overlook the fact, that it is not the question what sort of things can move God, but that he cannot be moved at all by any such means ; and yet not exactly from any immovablity in his nature, which we are equally unable to affirm or deny, but because he is so ( infinitely good that no change could be desired or conceived. Perhaps the most decisive thing in Christianity against this popular error, is the Christian Sacrifice—that, I mean, _of the entire life and death of Christ, which is the one sacrifice, swallowing up all others. Now, inasmuch as this proceeds entirely from the un sought, unmoved love of God—from his own spontaneous] benevolence, and is to us the measure of its greatness, it puts out of the.question any sacrifice on the part of man, by way of secur ing that love or benevolence. Secondly.—But, then, if worship canuot be intended to influence God in any way, neither may we go into the other extreme of supposing that the exclusive influence (and meaning) cf worship is its own reflex action on our minds, i.e., that the power and aJ

1 vantage of it is in that such an act is in itself beneficial to the mind. In which case it would still continue so, even if there were no God at all. For so long as we fancied there was, and worshipped Him, the influence of that mental act, in itself, would remain un changed. We cannot, however, hold ing to any since rity and reality in Christianity, allow its influence on us to be indifferent to the fact, whether there is truth in it or nothing but fiction. "We must, therefore, look further for the meaning and power of worship. We may find it in this one suggestive thought: That worship, whether as prayei*, or in any other form, is the point of contact in our conscious spiritual life between the divine mind and ours. Both because we become conscious of His presence, character, love, and power; and so on our part come into fellowship with Him. And, also, because then we avail oui-selves of that influence which God, as the universal spirit of life and power,is always shedding forth for those who will accept it and be benefitted; but which, of course, is valueless with those who will not place themselves in a recipient position. While, then, we avoid the absurd impossibility of our prayer or worship moving and go verning the divine mind, we yet attach a most unlimited power to them, above and beyond the mere reflex influence of the act itself, Even as by bathing in the stream of medicinal waters we are not merely exercising the limbs, but placing ourselves where a purifying influence can reach us j, so in worship,we are bringing the soul into such a position that it may receive the renovating and exalting influence of those waters of spiritual health and life, that flow in rich and boundless streams from the love of the Father for every intelligent creature in the universe, but whose blessings are necessarily excluded by the unbelief and worldliness of the un worshipping soul. Thirdly.—We then see these two things : (1.) That anything is really of the nature of worship which enables us to be increasingly sensible of the near ness of God to us. It matters not at all whether we call it worship or not; the essence of worship is that sensible contact of the divine mind with ours. Anything that accomplishes that end is essentially of the nature of worship —though it may not possess the form. "We can, then, admit the popular saying that "work is worship;" not in the coarse sense that either manual or mental labor is in itself an act of worship, which is no more true than that all the heartless forms that pretend to be worship are such. But all work, whatever its nature, which is pursued with true and pure aims, that is for the real good of humanity, which is, the same th'ng as the glory of our Father God not for some selfish gain or satis faction—all such work is worship ; for every act and hour of such work deepens my sense of oneness with God. So, too, may all places, all times, and all objects constitute the one grand temple of worship, when I have learned, as some of our forefathers did, perpetually to walk with God, interpreting the universe as the divine means of bring ing man into an ever deepening sense of his nearness. (2.) That all specific forms of worship must be judged by their special adaptation to make real to ns this contact of the divine mind with ours. For only as they have that power, can they claim in any sense to be regarded as true worship. If then the despised " heathen" finds in his grotesque form that w.hich deepens in his soul the reality and nearness of his God, that is as much pure and holy worship for him as anything that we can boast. We, of course, may choose to say his God is no God ; and surely he might reply the same to us ; for, to say nothing of the grotesque or even horrible notions of God common in the popular theology, who of us has, as yet, risen to anything like an adequate conception of His ineffable sublimity 1 How small to Him may seem these differences so great to us ! 2. "We have then to look for the ele ments of worship that may possess this peculiar power. First. —We cannot doubt that the fact of fixing and concentrating the mind on religious ideas and objects, definitely, is of great importance. Also the with drawing the mind, not exactly from objects of the world, but from sen«ual and selfish aspects of those objeots. For, as we have seen, all created objects, and all things in life, rightly con trolled, may be the medium of worship; I can imagine no purer act of worship than thtt a man amidst these hymns and prayers should review the business of the week, to cast self and meanness out of it; —w.hile the fairest forms cease to the worship, when steeped in a venal worldly spirit. Looked at in this light, for fixed ou/^ntration, speciaHimes, places, and methods may be desirable, not as essential or important, but as facilitating the end in view. All wor ship contemplates keeping before the mind the highest and holiest conceptions possible to us — therein necessarily our God is enthroned. To whatever extent it can intensify these highest conceptions, it must make God more real and near to us. Judged by this standard what should we be compelled to say respecting much of our worship. Does it thus concentrate the mind on the highest and holieet ? In these re vival services, for instance, to me, the very opposite tendency was distress ingly painful. • You need not to be reminded that all that appeals power -1 fully to the mere outward senses, distracts rather than concentrates the mind. Needless display, whether in dress or ecclesiastical ornamentation, the music that partakes more of the street or the theatre than the temple— noisy gesticulation, sensational stories, the straining after effect,—wherein even truth is sacrificed; all this, instead of hav ing the true effect of worship, renders it absolutely impossible. I would not say that the silent Friend is the only or is the truest worshipper ; but I will say that there is no genuine worship that dees not contain muuh that calm and thoughtful fixing of the suul

I upon the objects too pure and spiritual to be displayed to the senses.

Secondly.—You will at once under stand how necessary it is that we should approach all worship with a thoughtful mind ; a mind already pre pared by reflection. < 'therwise there will be but little prospect of those highest and holiest conceptions laying such hold of the soul as to bind it to the Supreme God. All the more shall we see this considering that our ideas of God should be always advancing, growing in clearness and loftiness, in beauty and consistency, in loveliness and power. Both Vecause we are as yet so far from adequate conception of God, and because unless they do thus grow, they will stagnate aud become ineffective. The thought we have to day should be far in advance of the thought we had this time last year. So essential an element is this progressive ness of thought in worship that its absence will amply explain the cold ness and deadness that so often comes over us, and the distance God seems to be from us.

Thirdly.—lt is essential to all true worship that the life should be in harmony with it, since it is impossible that we should be sincerely seeking oneness with the divine mind—the aim of all worship—while we are con sciously living in opposition to the divine will. Herein again it is manifest how much, -work, when true and holy, is worship. To pretend to be drawing near to God in prayers and praises, while we are alienating ourselves from Him by deeds, was of old, and is now the sacrifice that is an abomination in His sight. We could welcome these revival services if they did hold up before the eyes of men their common everyday lives, compelling them to look steadily at the well-known wicked nesses of this age and this city, in social and commercial life—asking how these things make them one with God. But then the same crowds would cease to flock there. Yet how vain is it to sappose that any worship or service can quicken our languished spiritual life, till men will look at their deeds in common life to see whether they too can be a point of contact between their souls and the Holiest.

Fourthly.—ln such worship we shall find the key to the immortal life. How indeed, could it not be its very dawn 'i For all is immortalised that the fingers of God touch. No doubt, God and the Eternal Life stand or fall together. He who believes in one cannot but realise the other. He who doubts the one is fast losing the other. The worship, then, that is truly the point of contact between my soul and the Supreme Father Mind, is to me the indestructible sense of Immortality.' Jt leaves pro found and indelible the Psalmist's thought, " It is good for me to draw near to God."

A PHYSICIANS WIFE'S STORY.

■' I HAVE heard of persons whose hair was whitened through excessive fear, but, as I never saw, myself, any one so affected, I am disposed to be incredulous on the sub ject." The above remark was made to Dr. Maynard as we sat on the piazza of his pretty villa discussing the different effects of terror on dissimilar temperaments. Without replying to me the doctor turned to his wif ;, and said : " Helen, will you please relate to my old friend the incident within your own ex perience. It is the moat convinciqg argu ment I cau advance."

I looked at Mrs Maynard in surprise. I had observed that her hair, which was luxuriant and dressed very' becomingly, was purely colorless; but, as she was a young woman, and also a very pretty one, I supposed that it was powdered to heighten the brilliancy of her fine dark eyef.

The doctor and I had been fellow students, but, after leaving college, we had drifted—l to commence practice in an eastern city, he to pursue his profession in a growing town in the west. I was now on a visit to him for the first time since his marriage. Mrs Maynard, no doubt, reading my sup position by my look of incredulity, smiled as she shook her snowy tresses over her shoulders, and seating herself by her husband's side, related the following interesting episode :

" It was nearly two years ago since ray husband was called on one evening to visit a patient several miles away. Our domestics had all gone to a wake in the vicinity, the dead man being a relative of one of our serving women. Thus I was left alone. But I felt no fear, for we nevsr had heard of burglars or any sort of desperadoes in our quiet village, then con sisting of a few scattered houses. The windows leading out on the piazza were open, as now, but I secured the blinds before my husband's departure, and locked the outside doors all except the front one, which I left for the doctor to lock after going out, so that, if I should fall asleep before his return, he could enter without arousing me. I heard the doctor's rapid footsteps on the gravel, quickened by the urgent tones of a messenger who awaited him ; and, after the sharp rattle of the car riage wheels had become an echo, I seated myself by the parlour astral, and very &oon became absorted in the hook I bad been reading before being disturbed by the summons.

But after a time my interest succumbed to drowsiness, aud I thought of retiring, when the clock in the doctor's study struck twelve, so I determined to wait a few moments more, feeling that he would be home very soon. I closed niy book, donned a robe de-chambre, let down my hair, and then returned to my seat to patiently wait andlisten. Not thefaintest sound disturbed the stillness of the night. Not a breath of air stirred the leaf. The silence was so pro found that it became oppressive. I longed for the sharp click of the gate-latch and the well-known step on the gravel walk. I did not dare to break the hush myself by mov ing or singing, I was so oppressed with the deep stillness. The human mind is a strange torturer of itself. I began to conjure up vivid fancies about ghostly visitants, in the midst of which occurred to me the stories I had heard from superstitious people about the troubled spirits of those who had died suddenly, like the man whom my servants had gone to " wake," who had been killed by an accident at the saw mill. In the midst of these terrifying reflections, I was startled by a stealthy footfall on the piazza. I listened between fear and hope. It might be the doctor. But no, he would not tread like that; the step wes too soft and cautious for anything less wily than a cat. As I listened again, my eyes were fixed on the window-blind, I saw the slats move slow and cautiously, and then the rays of the moon disclosed a thin, cadaverous face, and bright glittering eyes, peering at me O, horror ! who was it! or what was it! I felt the cold perspiration start at every pore. I seemed to befrozen in my chair. I could not move ; I could not cry out; my tougue seemed glued to the roof of my mouth, while the deathly white face pressed closer, and the great sunken eyes wanderetl in their gaze about the room. In a few moments the blind closed noiselessly as it had been opened, and the cautious footsteps came

I toward the door. "Merciful Heaven V I I cried, in a horror-stricken whisper, as I hean] j the key ami in the Jock, " the doctor in his / haste, must have forgotten to withdraw the i key." " God forgive me!" ejaculated Dr. Maynard, interrupting his wife, and look ing far more excited than she. " I can never forgive myself for such a thoughtless act. Please proceed, my dear." -, I heard the front door open, the' step in the hall, and, helpless as a statue, I sat rivited to my chair. The parlour door was open, and in it stood a tall, thin man, whom I never beheld. He was dressed in a long, loose robe, a sort of gaberdine, and a black velvet skull cap, partially concealed a broad forehead, under which gleamed black eyes, bright as living coals, and placed so near together that their gaze Avas preter natnral in its directness; heavy grizzled eye ■ brows hung over them like the tangled mane of a lion ; the nose was sharp and prominent, the chin was over grown with white hair, which hung down in locks as weird as the Ancient Mariner's. He politely doffed his cap, bowed, replaced it, and^then said, in a slightly foreign accent -. " Madame it is not necessary for me to stand on any further ceremony, as your husband, Dr. Maynard, (whereupon he again bowed profoundly), has already acquainted you with the nature of my busi ness here to-night. " I perceive," he added, glancing at my neglige robe, " that you were expecting me." " No," I found voice to stammer. " The doctor has said nothing to me about a visitor at this hour of the night." " Ah ! he wished to spare you, no doubt, a disagreeble apprehension," he returned advancing and taking a seat on the sofa opposite me, where' for a few moments he sat and eyed me from head to foot with a strange glittering light in his eyes that mysteriously impressed me. " You have a remarkably fine physique, madame," he observed, quietly; " one that might deceive the eye of the most skilled and practical physician. Do you suffer much pain !" Unable to speak, I shook my head. A terrible suspicion was creeping over me. I was alone, miles away from aid or rescue ; with a mad man. " Ah !" he continued, reflectively, '"your husband may have mistaken a tumor for a cancer. Allow nib to feel your pulse," he said, rising and bending over me. I thought it best to humour him, remem bering it was unwise for a helpless woman to oppose the as yet harmless freak of a lunatic. He took out his watch, shook his head gravely, laid m/ hand down gently, then went toward the study, where, on the table was an open case of surgical instru ments. "Do not be alarmed, madame," he said to me as I was about to rise and flee, and in another, instant he was by my side, with the case in his possession. Involuntary I raised my hand and cried ; "Spare me ! Oh ! spare me I beseech you !" " Madame," he said sternly, clasping my wrist with his long, sinewy fingers, with a grip of steel, " you behave like a child. I have no time to parley, for I have received a letter from the Emperor of the French stating that he is desirous of my attendance. I must start for Europe immediately after performing the operation upon your breast," and, before I could make the slightest resistance, he had me in his arms, and was carrying me into the study, where was a long table covered with green baize. On this he laid me, and, holding me down with one hand with the strength of a maniac, he brought forth from some hidden recess in his gown several long leather straps, with which he secured me to the. table with the skill of an expert. It was but the work of a moment to unlose my robe and bare my bosom. Then, after carefully examining my left breast, he said : '* Madame, your husband has made a mistake. I find no necessity for my indended operation." At this I gave a long-draw sigh of relief, and prepared to rise. " But," he continued, " I have made the discovery that your heart is large as that of an ox ! I will remove it so that you can see for yourself, reduce it to its natural size by a curious process of my own, unknown to medical science, aud of which I am sole discoverer, then replace it again." He began to examine the edges of the • cruel knife, on which I closed my eyes, while every nerve was in perceptible tremor. " The mechanism of the heart is like a watcn," he resumed ; "if it goes to fast, the great blood-vessel that supplies the force must be stopped like the lever of a watch, and the works must be cleaned, and repaired, and regulated. It may interest you to know that I was present at the post-mortem examination held over the remains ot the beatiful Louise of Prussia. Had I been consulted before her death I would have saved her by taking 6ut her heart, and re moving the polypi, between which it was called too late. The King and I had a little difference ; he was German, I am French. I trust that this is sufficient explanation." He now bent over me, his long white beard brushing my face. I opened my eyf s beseechingly, trying to think of soruo way to save myself. " Oh, sir, give me an anaesthetic, that I may not feel the pain !" I pleaded. ' " Indeed, indeed madan, I would comply with your wish were you not the wife of a physician,—of a skilful surgeon. I wish you to note with what ease I perform this difficult operation, bo that you may tell your husband of the great savant whose service he secured, fortunately in season." As he said this, he made the final test of the knife on h« thumb. How precious "were the moments now ! They were fleeing all too fast, and yet an eternity seemed com pressed in every one. I never fainted in my life, and I nerer fell less like swooning than now, as I summoned all my presences of mind to delay the fearful moments, fervently praying in the meantime for my husband's return. "Doctor," said I, with assumed com posure, " I have the utmost confidence in ! your skill—l would not trust my life to j another; but, doctor you. have forgotten to bring a napkin to stanch the blood. If you will have the goodness to ascend to my sleeping chamber, at the right of Jthe hall, j you will find everything you need for that ' purpose in the bureau." " All, madam," he said, shaking his head sagaciously, " I never draw blood during a surgical operation; that is another one of my secrets unknown to the faculty." Then placing his hand on my bosom Jtie added with horrible espieglerie : ; " I'll scarcely mark that skin,whiter than snow, and smooth as monumental ala- i baster." I " 0 God !" I cried, as I felt the cold steel touch my breast; but with the same breath came deliverance." | Quick as thought a heavy woolen piano cover was thrown over the head and peraon of the madman, and bound tightly around . him. As quickly was I released, and the . thongs that bound me soon held the maniac, j My husband held me in his arms. He had ' noiselessly approached, aud taking the hor- j ror of my situation at a glance, had by the .. only meansathand secured the madman,who ! was the very patient he had been sumttnoned to attend, but who had escaped the vigil ance of his keeper so6n after the departure of the messenger, who had now returned \ with the doctor in pursuit of him. As the poor wretch was being hurried away, he turned to me and said : " Madam, this is a | plot to rob me of my reputation." Your ■ husband is envious of my great skill as a | surgeon. "Adieu !" I afterwards learned that the man was once an eminent surgeon in Europe, but much learning had made him mad. When he bound me to the table my hair was as black as a raven ; when I left it, it was as you see it now— white as full blown cotton. —" Washington Gazette."

• I ; SOMEBOBV writes to a ruval Paper to ask ''how long cows should beaked. -Why, the same as short cows, of course? "NOT Lost, but gone before, " exlcaims the man when 3 hat blows off and ahead ' hi mo

JUDEA FOR THE JEWS.

THE REHABILITATION" OF TALKS LINK.

BY DR. EDWARD BYROM EATOH.

O JtXRAsH'S sons, arouse ye! proclaim your high demand— Profession of Judia— your holy, ancient land ! Behold ! her soil grows fertile, and cluster ing grapes distil Red flowing wine of E-shcol by rivulet and rill. The plowman turns the furrow ; the sower, in his train, Casts wide o'er teeming earth's breast the seed of yellow grain. The reaper mows the green grass—the sickle cutteth keen — And ripened com in harvest field in slackened sheaves is seen ; While gleaners gather toll space, as in the blithesome youth Of your fair laud they once were wont— the days of truthful Ruth. The olive bears its berry, the fig its. lus cious fruit; ! The palm lifts up its broad leaf, strikes down its clinging root ; The bee broad-gathers honey from flower and shrub and plant, ! And plenty smiles in love again, in lieu of fnowning want. _ I The Moslem holds your birth-right, 'tis true, with scimetar — | Jerusalem, the golden !—by force of blood and war ; But God's bequest of it to you can never, never cease, j And He will grant it to your prayer, in right of love and peace. Behold ! the Otham faileth ! His sight is ' growing dim, And feebly drawn the breathing, political, j of him ; ! While Egypt watches sleuth-like, and Russia draweth nigh, _ J With hand upon the hilt of sword, begirt ■ upon her thigh. ! Behold ! the nations gather, and freedom j loud proclaim ; _ j Each land for lineal owjiers, for children of j its name. J Go forth within their councils, and take your steady stand ! Look up erect, and raise aloft, with gesture fit, your hand ; Let speech attend, emphatic; let boldness urge your tone, And claim with solemn utterance Judea as your own. Rem'embkr, God has written tlms : " Be- LIEVE the time is nigh," And man will not your urgency dare gain say or deny. Your days of squalid servitude, your nights of racking pain, Your years of dira oppression can never come again. Your limbs are free and supple ; your fet ters riven are ; Your name is honoured highly; your influence afar. No barrier lies before you ; no obstacle? prevail To make your claim of heritage an act of no avail. Raise up your standard, gleaming ! blow loud the trumpet call ! And doubt will flee before yon, and all re sistance fall. Come from the lordly Danube, the Dnieper and Don! Come, thronging from the nations, where your race has glory won. Let Hudson, Thames, and Mersey yield up thy thrifty sonsj By Tagus, Spree, and Tiber, where Neva's volume runs ; Where rolls the mighty Amazon, where flows Missouri's tide— The Father of the Waters—the Mississippi's bride; By wave of Orinoco, and Sacramento's sands; By Seine and Rhone, enricheuing fail- France's sunny lands; By Mauzanares' wavelets, and Tyue's dark, murky side, Where Rhine's bright sparkling waters in placid ripplings glide ; Where leaps Columbia's ton-ent, the pride of Western day ; Where sluggish creeps St. Lawrence from ocean's northern way; Where Ganges turbid rolleth, in Eastern realm, its flood; Where Platta' fretteth sullen in lurid southern mood ; By Tigris and Euphrates, by yellow Yang-tse-Kiang ; In India where the suttee its doleful dirges rang, Hindoo still worships Buddha, and Parsee light of day, Where wears its crown of commerce, the Orient queen—Bombay. By / ty nation's river; by every people's tiv '; By roll of every ocean ; by every valley wide; By chain of every lake-link ; in port of every sea; By foaming, white Niagara ; by grand Yosemite,, Like silver flagon pouring forth its sheen of 1 crystal spray ; By rock and fortress hoary ; by battlements grown gray; 'Mid groves of Academus ; in forum and in school; In marts of commerce busy ; in Senate's seat of rule; On crest of each grand mountain ridge, that runneth thro' the earth, Sound high the startling tidings—your nation's second birth ! Sound high the joyful tidings ! and come in glad array To sing the song of Jacob —to welcom. Zibn's day— To build again the temple—to dwell in city bless'd With freedom's light, God's service bright, by all the world confess'd.

A CLERICAL CASTER.

HOW THE PARSON WAS TOO MUCH

FOR THE DEACON,

! Although " The Times" has the utmost respect fcfor the clergy, it is not strictly speaking an ecclesiastical paper. Latterly it has given much space to the discussion ;of clercial topica, but this has been due solely to the fact that such a surprising quantity of things have happened to so ' many surprised ministers. These things ; could not be passed over in silence by a j well-conducted newspaper, and so long as ministers continue to make a practice of having things happen to them, just so long I will it be necessaiy, in the interests of morality, to call attention to them. With this explanation let us proceed to consider the recent able conduct of a Tennessee minister, and the discomfiture of his design- I ing Elder. ! The minister in question was of the Pres i byterian variety, and presided over a Nash j ville congregation. On second thoughts, jit is perhaps better to have him reside at Knoxville, the latter being a more remote and quiet town. His name was Hancock, but, in order to spare is feelings, his name '• shall not be mentioned here, and he shall be vaguely described as a Tennessee minis ter. Thus, courtesy and strict veracity can Ibe combined, and it has often been sug gested that in the treatment of quite a large : class of subjects this combinetion might be advantageously introduced into journalism. Closely connected with the minister was a combined Elder and grocer. That is to say, he sold groceries six days in the week and acted as Elder on Sunday. There are those who would prefer to say that he groced and elded on week-days and Sun days respectively, but they would thereby furnish a conspicuous ex-

ample of the folly of treating £ f b £ dg *d b ° ju^ ce ingtead of Jaw Qne wou]d u J u^y pose that if a buyer is one who buys and a preacher one who preaches, a grocer would be one who groces and an Elder one who

'_*C riri" "»———ii— mmmggjggpmm elds, but the supposition would be errone ous. Tin's shows the folly of attempting to I impose grammatical pipe-clay upon the , free corns of the English vocabulary. But to resume. The Tennessee Elder was a thrifty man and n liberal one. To be at once liberal and economical was the study of his life, and by the happy expedient of combining his sugar with sand and his tea with" sawdust he was able to give his cus tomers liberal measure and to make a hand some profit. On Chiistimas Day the usual donation party took place, and the Elder detenuim -■>] tojriv« his Pastor a handsome present. Noticing an advertisement in a Chicago paper which offered magnificent silver-plated casters for one dollar each, he bought a ctisr.er, for the purpose of present ing it to the minister as a feeble token of his friendship and admiration. He knew that the minister would be tempted to measure his Elder's friendship by the value of liis gift, and lie therefore felt that by affixing to the castor a tag marked 14dols. he would sidd to the good man's pleasure without directly incurring the guilt of lying. Accordingly, he prepared the delusive lag, and, sending the caster to the parsonage, felt that he liad been unprece dentedly liberal and successfully econo mical. " ! Now, it had happened that eighteen other members of the minister's congregation had also teen the Chicago advertisement, and had presented their Pastor with magnificent silver-plated casters though without tags. | When, therefore, among the dazzling array j of nineteen distinct casters the Elder's gift ! Ha'inted its insincere legend, the eighteen !

other givers felt indignant. Had they been wise in their generation, they would have kept quiet, and received credit for having expended §14 e&ch for every caster; but they wore strictly honest people, and t ;ey disliked the Elder, whose sugar, they in sisted, contained more sand than the in- ' terioT of the average Tennesseean really : required They, therefore, lost no time in acquainting the Pastor with the Elder's little game—-if that expression can, without impropriety, be used in connection with an Elder. Tin? astute minister received the information with a sweet, sad smile, but fovebore to express any opinion upon the subject, beyond suggesting that some one might have cheated the Elder by selling him a caster for an extravagant price. This took place on Christmas evening, ' and at about 3 o'clock the next afternoon the minister, carrying a small package, en- ' tercd the Elder's grocery. Upwards of a dozen leading citizens were at that precise moment engaged in spitting on the grocery stove and exchanging other social ameni ties. In their presence the good Pastor thanked the Elder for hip noble gift, and explained that, while there were few things in this world that gave him more real com fort than a caster, he could not but feel ' that, with a world full of suffering all around him, a conscientious man ought not ' to own more than eighteen casters. He bad, therefore—as he went on to say— brought back the Elder's nineteenth caster, and desired to exchange it for ten dollars worth of groceries. This would be equiva lent to placing at least four dollars in the hands of the Elder, besides the usual profit upon the ten dollars worth or. groceries. As to the precise nature of the groceries, he would not piesume to dictate, but would simply suggest that eggs and ham would bring; joy to his humble parsonage. In the presence of the dozen leading citi zens the Elder could not refuse so reason able a request. He received the caster in silence, and ordered his boy to put up ten dollars' worth of hams and fresh eggs. The Pastor thanked him, and after urging him to call at the parsonage, and hinting that possibly he might be willing to sell him two or three moie casters at the same rate, took his departure. That night the Elder kicked the family cat completely through •the window, administered a severe course ox apple-tree switch to his two boys, on the ground that they had surreptitiously visited the circus in July, 1873, and in several other ways led his wife to suppose that he had received news of the failure of some missionary enterprise, or was burdened with the fear that heresy was making progress in the Presbyterian Church.

Thus we see that it is never wise to in duce inanimate tags to tell lies for us, and that it is not safe to cast too many silver plated casters at one dollar each before even the most patient minister, lest he should turn and metaphorically rend somebody.

OPERATIC CRITICISM.

(To the Editor.)

Sir, —I am very sorry that the criticism of '' Faust," which appeared under the sign of '' Sigma," should have so greatly excited the Opera Company. I intended to have done them service, but their reception of my efforts affords another proof (if any were wanting) that they are so accustomed to the constantly recurring complimentary phrases of colonial journals, that they will tolerate nothing else. I do hope that he is wrong in supposing that my remarks can at all affect the commercial success of his enterprise. If there is a class of people to whom I have a specially kindly feeling, and whose prosperity I should excep tionally wish to advance, it is the class of musicians—musicians of all sorts; including players on sackbut, lute, psaltery, and harp. I need scarcely say that the argument of com mercial injury, used by S. Nobili, is a bad one. Musicians, like all the rest of us in this world who have our living to earn, must suffer from the law of competition and fitness, of which the world will judge. No amount of hostile criticism ever seriously injured real merit. Would it not have been better for the artistes to have asked themselves and each other whether there was any truth in the re marks made, and to have tried to cure the defects pointed out, if found to exist ? Let it be noticed that nothing was said about voice, or any personal quality. The allusions were, I think, entirely addressed to misinterpreta tions, or to habits and manners, easily capable of correction, or alteration, and reducible to "good form." One remark more: the Me phistophles of the other night appears to be traditional, or these Italian companies copy minutely from each other. Every particular of the part was identical with S. Dondi, so much so that the remarks made upon the present interpretation were nearly the same as those made upon S. Dondi's, and published at the time. S. Lebuan, the most accomplished director of the orchestra, observed that the criticism was just, and was in the spirit of real art; but the true idea of Goethe's' Mephisto pheles was too refined for colonial audiences, and would not be popular. If that is true 'tis a pity, but '' way must be made for the calf of gold." I am, etc., —The Writer of the Critique.

THE NEWMARKET SLAUGHTER HOUSE.

(To the Editor.]

SIR, —A section of the butchers and slaughter men appear to be much exercised about the closing of the Newmarket Slaughter House, and I might well ask, as Artemus Ward did, " Why these weeps?" From the letters which they have written they appear to think that it is only they who are interested in the question. ' ButJ it appears to me, Mr. Editor, that the persons most interested, and who ought to have most to say in the matter, are by these disinterested gentry totally ignored—l refer to | the actual consumer of the meat, who is most j interested in obtaining wholesome food; and ' that the public health is of more consequence and more to be considered than what they are. Some slur has endeavoured to be thrown on Dr. StockwelPs report. Let us see what the Health Officer of the Newmarket Board j says : " The smell of fresh and decomposing i blood, their own manure and the offal re- j maining in an open recepticle, emptied but once in 24 hours, under the noses of these animals, added to hunger and thirst, has a tendency to produce a diseased condition in ■ unslaughtered animals. This extract is from j Dr. Goldsbro's report. We have thus two ; eminent medical authorities, one of them the \ Newmarket Health Officer, who joins in con demning their Slaughter House. At the Western Springs, one is, I believe, open. Can

—uw■————————— —»»— ■ „, , _^ o you, Mr Editor, tell us who are using it"?— that the ratepayers of Auckland may kno where to get a piece of wholesome, clean meat. —A Consumer of Meat.

INTENDED LECTURE ON MUSKETRY.

(To the Editor.) Sir, —Seeing your local in Wednesday's, anoT the notice signed by all the commanding officers in your Thursday's issue, I attended at the Drill-shed, and was surprised to see only two of those officers present —Captains Dignan and Morrow, with but a very few members of corps. If this is not apathy it must proceed from a conviction of individual efficiency. But what is the true state of affairs with us volun teers, taken as a whole ? Why, one-third of us only use the rifle for amusement, in the hope of winning Government or other prises ; the other two-thirdsfnever fire ball cartridge at allf; and the whole of us are totally ignorant of a knowledge of distances, although that would be the first requisite in the field. Of course, the Government is to blame for this state of thing s; for^if it had demanded a minimum or efficiency in these respects, it would have been rendered. On failing this, the colony would not have had to pay for actual inefficiency. But, sir, the thought struck me last night, that if our officers would lead us no better in the field than they do in the march of improve ment, we should make but a very poor show— for I am An Inefficient Volunteer. «.

ENGLISH LIBERALISM.

! "Impisi" writes: Sir, —That unfortunate individual, the editor of your morning con temporary, is fast getting rabid with an acute attack of Russo-phobia, which, however, if I mistake not, did not assert itself so violently in the early days of Turkish excesses. He is also maudlin over the assumed departure of | glory, influence, and prestige from England, : and thereupon proceeds to assail the great Liberal party as the cause of this loss. The Editor of the ' Herald' does not appear to understand the tenets of a true Liberal with regard to European affairs—nor, for the matter of that, Colonial affairs either. A Liberal holds that all political and social efforts should be directed towards progress, and by progress we understand a spread of civilization, an advancement of education and knowledge, and 1 a freedom of thought and action, all tending Ito self-government. For the furtherance of these views for the benefit of mankind a state 1 of peace is indispensable ; war is incompatible with progress. At the commencement of the insurrections that led to the war, which is now, it is to be hoped, a thing of the past, all civilized communities, and notably the Liberal party of England, drew the attention of the Turkish powers to the despotic and barbarous methods of government existent in their Christian States, and to the degradation to which their people were reduced, as well as to the horrible cruelties of their own troops, and . ! urged upon, them the necessity of granting to these States a system of partial autonomy ! which would give to their people greater free ' dom, and, consequently, more ability to rais themselves in the scale of civilkation, and to ' partake of that progress which is fast spreading throughout the world. These representations the Turkish powers repeatedly ignored, and ! with blind arrogance went from excess to ' excess until Europe stood aghast with horrors. Matters assumed such an aspect that it became : imperative for Turkey's hand to be stayed. i But there is in England a large party similar in opinion to the Editor of the ' Herald,' who are called Conservatives. Russia acts on these [ Conservatives as a red rag on a bull, and ' whenever this red rag is flourished before them 1 they shut their eyes, and, without knowing 1 why, go, as Mark Twain says, "rairing and chairging" about in a state of boundless, and insane fury. Throughout the war this party ! has been on thorns to join issue with Russia, but, fearing for their own popularity, and, j consequently, jfor their seats, have been able 1 to initiate nothing more dignified than a policy ' of vacillation, which, as the Editor of the . 'Herald* truly says, has been witnessed with, shame throughout the British Dominions. But, writing in conformity with" his Conservative proclivities, this sapient editor further says — "Mr. Gladstone and his sympathizers have much to answer for." Strange logic! Ad mirable logician! I thought that every one whose mind was not hopelessly warped by acute liberophobia, could not help perceiving that, had Mr. Gladstone's advice been acted upon in the first instance, and strong pressure brought to bear on Turkey to Jcompel her to reform the government of her Christian States —andjno one can doubt that England, with her monetary hold on Turkey, could have [done it without bloodshed—there would have been no Russo-Turkish war at all. And even if she had joined Russia as an ally on the actual • outbreak of hostilities, as I believe some ' sections of Gladstonites were not adverse to, she would have been in a position to hold that power in check in her demands on the re establishment of peace, which at present she has not a shadow of pretence for doing.

PIERCED BY AN. AUGER.

A Terrible Accident at the Savage

Mine, on the Comstock.

The Virginia City • Chronicle' has the follow ing account of the terrible accident which resulted in the death of Carpenter in the Savage mine carpenter shop on Monday after noon, January 7th. About five o'clock last evening one of the most extraordinary and horrible accidents that ever happened on the Comstock took place in the Savage carpenter shop. Here there is in use a steam auger, which points towards the workman and makes 1,000 revolutions per minute. It is a self feeder, and anything that is laid up against the point is caught and thrown over its coils with lightning-like rapidity. William Carpenter, the unfortunate victim, at the time mentioned was boring a hole through a stick of hardwood, about three inches thick and eight feet along, and was leaning his might against it, under the im pression that there was a gauge attached to the machinery to prevent the block going lurther along the auger than the distance required. Suddenly a workman near Carpenter obser' an indescribable lookfon his face as his bY shot forward and doubled over the terribk. machine. It had passed, like a fencer's sword, through his stomach, and was protruding at the back. He was literally impaled upon the auger, which was churning his intestines at the rates of from 1,000 to. 1,509 revolutions per minute.

In the midst-of this horrible agony, Car penter seems to have maintained his presence of mind, for he cast himself backward and got off the auger, falling to the floor as he did so. The most terrible excitement prevailed among his comrades in the shop, and there was a rush to the prostrate man. The sight must have almost paralized them. Carpenter was lying on his back, with his clothes torn and twisted above the region of the abdomen. Just above him the deadly auger was still whizzing, and clinging to it was a mass of intestines, the loose ends of which spread out with the revolutions, and gave the auger the appearance of a buzz-saw. The man was removed to the bath-room and laid out upon, the floor. He was still cool, and not a cry escaped him. His brother (the ex-city jailer) was sent for, and on his arrival, in a few words, he communicated his wishes in regard to his business affairs and the disposal of his effects, remarking, "My brother is an honest man, and will do the right thing. Presently it became evident that he was suffering intense pain, and the physicians in attendance decided that he had better die under the influence of chloroform, Before the drug was administered he was told that he would never come from under its influence alive. He merely nodded, bade those about him good-by, and in a few minutes was unconscious.

He lay in this state as calmly as a sleeping child until a little after four o'clock this morning, when the influence of the chloroform passed off, and he opened his eyes. He did not seem to suffer much pain, and occasionally talked to his attendants. He died at five o'clock, and, as those who saw him said, " died like a man." His last words were, " I am passing into the unknown."

• You're very Pointed, and I feel it." aw the young lady remarked when she ran the needle in Iver ..finger.

THE EVENING STAR SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 16, 187 S.

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