n faith_. And the Christian man's heart must be its
own inquisitor, before God, in the inquiry after the point, or points,
where you, where I, need to make that surrender for ourselves.

In the void thus left, in the chasm thus cut deep into our ambitions,
into our self-love, the mighty Spirit in His tranquil fulness will
spring up. And then, whether we know it or not, we Ministers of the Word
shall assuredly be vehicles of spiritual power, to our Lord's praise.

* * * * *

FAREWELL.

So let me close these fragmentary words spoken "to my younger Brethren."
May God's mercy be upon the writer. Upon the readers, whom he loves in
the Lord, may grace and peace come every hour and day, in secret, in
society, in holy ministration of Word and Ordinance. And in due time,
when they are no longer juniors but, if the Lord will, veterans and
leaders in the work, may they in turn pass on the message to those who
follow, in the name of Jesus Christ. Amen.

"CHRISTIANITY is so great and surprising in its nature that, in
preaching it to others, I have no encouragement but in the
belief of a continued divine operation. It is no difficult
thing to change a man's opinions. It is no difficult thing to
attach a man to my person and notions. It is no difficult thing
to convert a proud man to spiritual pride, or a passionate man
to passionate zeal for some religious party. But to bring a man
to love God, to love the law of God while it condemns him, to
loathe himself before God, to tread the earth under his feet,
to hunger and thirst after God in Christ, and after the mind
that was in Christ, this is impossible. But God has said it
shall be done; and bids me go forth and preach, that by me, as
His instrument, He may effect these great ends; and therefore I
go."

CECIL.

FORDINGTON PULPIT:

A PREACHER'S WEEKDAY THOUGHTS,

_Written, in 1878, in the Church of the Author's Baptism, and where he
first Ministered as his Father's Curate._

Many voices yester-even
Made these walls and arches ring
With their high-sung hopes of Heaven,
And the glories of its King;
Now my footfall sounds alone
On the aisle's long path of stone,
Save that yonder from the loft,
With a solemn tone and soft,
Beating on with muffled shock,
Conscience-waking, speaks the clock.
Holy scene, and dear as holy,
Let me ponde