sacrifices in
their behalf. This dislike is such that I have often thought it to be a
favor to the heathen, that they are far off and out of sight; for if
they were near and directly around many professed Christians, with all
their defilement and ugliness in full view, much of the apparent
sympathy for them which now exists, would be turned into contempt and
cold neglect. But if such had been the superficial and ill-founded
character of Christ's compassion, where should we have been at this
present hour? There is not a wretch now wallowing in the deepest mire of
sin, who is so vile and low in our eyes, as we all were in the eyes of
infinite purity. Yet the more wretched we were, the more deeply did
Christ feel for us. _This spirit of Christ is the only true spirit of
missions_--the only spirit that will make self-denying, continued, and
persevering efforts to save the heathen.

There is no romance in the practical and every-day duties of a
missionary. The work is of a humble form, and emphatically _toilsome_.
There is but little true missionary spirit in the world. It is not the
sympathy of an hour, nor an enthusiasm awakened by romance, but the pure
love of Christ in the soul, constraining the possessor to pray earnestly,
and to labor cheerfully without notice or applause, for the lowest human
objects; and which finds a rich and sufficient reward for a life of toil
in leading one ignorant slave, one degraded outcast, or one vile heathen,
to accept the offers of salvation. My observation in the field for
thirteen years testifies to the fact, that no sympathy or enthusiasm
will come down to the arduous details of missionary work, and persevere
in it for years, that does not flow from such genuine and permanent love
as our Saviour manifested when here upon earth. The more we become like
Christ, the more shall we possess of the true missionary character.

How slow we are to make _real sacrifices_ for the good of others! It was
not so with Christ. He chose, for our good, to become a man of sorrows
and acquainted with grief--to be rejected, despised and hated--to become
a mark for the bitterest rage and the finger of scorn.

Go to the garden of Gethsemane. There behold, what even the pencil of
the angel Gabriel cannot fully portray. There, in the stillness of the
night, the Saviour retires to give vent to the bursting emotions of his
soul. Deep sorrow, keen anguish, and excruciating agony roll in, like
continuous surges, u