The intellectual character of the two men, as it appears in their writings, consists well with their character as shown in action. They were not men of far-reaching mind, they were narrow and dogmatic, looked at questions only on one side, and had as little talent as fondness for keen or profound argument. They were too fond of authority to inquire freely, and too practical to love ingenious speculations. Theological discussion was not their province, though they were constantly driven to engage in it. Men of little zeal and less influence would have worsted Wesley in argument, and Bernhard with all his daring knew too much to come into the lists with Gilbert and Abelard. They were satisfied with their faith, and what they sought was not to reason about it or to prove it, but to propagate it.

Neither of them did much for or against theology. Say what the "watchman" of the Church would, the doctors of the Church would speculate, and discourse and write, and excommunication and persecution were a weak argument against their opinions. Calvinism suffered little from the blows of the founder of Methodism, and if the Arminian theory rested upon his reasoning, it would find few supporters now. Theology was not their province. They were practical men, and their influence upon religion and the world was that of actors, not of thinkers.

Bernhard lived at a time when he could exercise an immense influence. In the day when books were in manuscript and the spoken word alone could move men, the great preacher was the great man. And from the record of its effects, Bernhard's eloquence must have been wonderful. Add to his power in hushing rebellion, in exciting zeal, in overawing the proud, the other attractions of the man-his austerities, his simple habits, his superiority to worldly dignities, his unaffected piety, and we need not wonder that he was known so widely, that he was endowed with Apostolic authority and the sanctity of a miracle-worker, that a grateful Church should canonize him. Wesley in his more enlightened age, with equal gifts and graces, could have but a very inferior power. A sect indeed could call him leader, but this was comparatively small and poor and numbered scarcely one of the honored of the land. Few of his brethren in the Church knew of his

movements, and fewer still cared for them. To most he was a weak fanatic. Books were written to ridicule him. To none was his right arm an arm of terror. He was as eloquent and moving as the Catholic monk, crowds were in tears around him, and blessings followed his path; but when the great or the proud heard him, they came to laugh and went away untouched. Yet his influence, small as its aggregate was at that time, has been in its results greater than that of the great Bernhard. For the latter was merely the “ great man" in his own time. He did nothing by which posterity will remember him, nothing to isolate him from his age, to set him apart as a distinct worker. The founder of a sect stands out from the great body; he is not lost in the mass.

And Bernhard has taken his place in the catalogue of Saints, illustrious with them, but not apart from them. Who knows or cares for him now? His life fills a páragraph in the Encyclopedias. His writings are dust-covered folios in a dead language. The school-boy hears his name, but can only find out about him that he was a great man once, and preached up a Crusade. The pious Catholic prays for his intercession, but calls upon a hundred others in the same breath. His fame has departed, and his name alone survives upon the Church's record. Wesley needs no place in the calendar to secure an immortality. A sect of Christians, as wide-spread as Christianity itself, revere his name and rejoice to call him father. The praise of his zeal and piety is in all their churches. And where his name is known, his life and character are familiar. He lives in the hearts and lives of his followers. He is to Methodists what Luther is to Protestants. And more than this. The practical direction which he has given to piety has gone out from his sect into the action of the Christian world. It has turned men away from wranglings about doctrine and faith to charity and earnestness in Christian endeavor. The echo of his words comes back to us from the isles of the sea. His missionaries are in the East and the West. Generations of those who will never hear the name of the Catholic Saint are rising up to call him blessed. He has left his mark upon the world, and every day deepens and widens it. He has rested from his labors, but his works still follow him.

C. H. B.

THE IMPORTANCE OF RELIGION.

A SERMON, BY REV. AUGUSTUS C. L. ARNOLD.

LUKE X. 42. And Mary hath chosen that good part, which shall not be taken away from her.

THE deeply rooted habit of considering Jesus Christ apart from all those human sympathies, which are justly deemed honorable to our nature, is a serious obstacle in the way of forming a proper estimate of his character. In the splendor and majesty which habit has associated in our minds with the idea of the Son of God, we lose sight of the virtues of the Son of Man. But when we banish our prejudices, and look upon the beautiful picture of his life, as it is delineated on the pages of the faithful Evangelist, we discover a character entirely new,—a freshness and vividness, an attractiveness and loveliness, a gentleness and simplicity, which awaken our highest admiration and love.

His intercourse with the family of Lazarus forms one of the most beautiful parts of his life. The depth and purity of affection which he here evinces, his strong attachments and tender solicitude for those around him, bring him home to our hearts, and give him a place in our warmest and deepest affections. In the bosom of this amiable family Jesus frequently found a home. And when his heart was wounded and made sad by the ingratitude of that world which he would bless and save, he found a soothing cordial in the kind attentions of Lazarus and his sisters. His oftrepeated visits to their peaceful dwelling in Bethany were ever hailed, we have reason to think, with emotions of the highest pleasure. Yet no partialities to his friends, nor their attentions to him, could make him forget for a moment the great object of his mission. Wherever he was, he was the teacher and guide, as well as the cherished friend and associate. He rebuked and warned, yet with such inimitable delicacy and gentleness, that they could not but love him more deeply, while they smarted under his just reproofs.

Martha and Mary were equally sincere and devout; their attachments to Jesus were equally strong. The error of Martha, there

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fore, was not a sin. It pertained to the judgment, rather than the heart. She was anxious that her illustrious guest should be honorably served, and hence busied herself unreasonably about her household duties. Jesus, seeing the unnecessary arrangements which she was making, said to her; Martha, thou art too much troubled about these comparatively trifling matters. You give yourself needless anxiety on my account. My wants are few, and easily supplied; for I came not to be feasted and served, but to instruct and to save the world. One dish of food, and that of the simplest kind, is all that is needful. Mary has chosen a wiser part. She has neglected those unnecessary courtesies, which, however much the world may esteem them, I can well dispense with, and applied herself to the subject of religion; being anxious to gain that divine knowledge-that spiritual food, which, not like the meat that perishes, endures to everlasting life.'

If it be true that the Christian religion is connected with all the interests of the soul both for time and eternity, if it be the only power that can raise us above the events of life and give us stability in the midst of an unstable world, then all other considerations dwindle away before it into absolute nothingness. No one who believes the soul to be the nobler part of man will deny, that the claims of religion are paramount to all others. "Mary hath chosen that good part," says Jesus; the unwearied pursuit of religious truth-the cultivation of her moral nature—the acquisition of intellectual wealth; and this "shall not be taken away from her." The inference which we draw from this language is, that religion is a matter of the utmost consequence; and that it would be wise in us, often to turn aside from our business and our pleasures, and lend an attentive ear to its salutary counsels.

'But why,' one may ask, 'why should I give my attention to religion? What is it, that it should break in upon my business and pleasures, and disturb me in my gainful pursuits? What claims can it have to my regard, above the world in the midst of which I live, and which I so much love? What right has it to meddle with my affairs, and to speak out in such authoritative tones, of what is right and what is wrong-of what I must do, and what I must not do? Ever are these questions in the heart of the worldling. To him religion has few charms, and is always an

unwelcome visitor; for it breaks the spell in which he has been bound, it disperses the illusions which had cast a deceitful radiance into his soul, and tells him the terrible truths, that he has a conscience and that a righteous retribution awaits him in the future.

We answer, in the first place, that the Christian religion is important, as it respects its relations with our condition in the present life; and, in the second place, that it is infinitely important, as it respects its relations with our condition in that life which is to

come.

I. Religion would be an affair of vast importance, did we consult merely its results in the present life,-its beneficent influence on man and on society. But I speak not now of the influence of religion on society, in keeping alive in all classes a principle of jus tice, and thus compelling them to respect each other's rights. I do not speak of it now as essential to the prosperity and peace of communities; but rather as it respects the individual. I would address myself to men and women, who are responsible in their own persons to the tribunal above.

Man is subject to continual change. Life itself implies this. To say that man lives, is only to say that his earthly existence is a series of changes-a succession of scenes, which pass on like the representations of the theatre. Yet not wholly like these do they pass. These are but fictions; while the scenes of life are scenes of solemn reality, and their record remains on the undying soul. No situation in life can be conceived of, which is secure from reverses. Health speaks to us of disease; and joy reminds us of sorrow; and pleasure tells us of the hour of pain. Poverty and the hovel frequently become the portion of sordid avarice, in exchange for vast wealth and a splendid mansion; and life, dear, cherished, and, I had almost said, deified life-for what do we worship more than life?—life, even, vanishes as a phantom; and as its brief portions crumble away, as its weeks and months rush by, they warn us of the season of decay and the night of the grave. The greatest prosperity always has reverses to fear. "Is not this great Babylon which I have made," said one of the mightiest monarchs of the ancient world; and he thought he stood secure, above the clouds, where the sun would always shine and no storms ever reach him, and he boasted of his greatness; but