Nor is that the only question. Are we doing the work we have undertaken with our might? On which of us is the Lord Jesus Christ now looking down with approval and saying, "He is a good and faithful servant; he is doing for Me all he can"? What a power inconceivably beyond what it is would the Church of God be if every member of it were doing his utmost for Christ!

It is quite possible some reader will say, "But it is so little I can do that it is scarcely worth my attempting anything." Perhaps that estimate of yourself is a right one. It may be little-very little-that you can do. Your powers may be as feeble and your opportunities as few as you think they are. Well, all that is required of you-all that the Lord Himself asks at your hand-is that you do what you can. It is often said in respect to particular forms of service which people are asked to undertake, "It is of no use; I have no gift that way." Have you tried? Did you ever seek the gift? or, conscious that you have it in only a small degree, did you ever resolve to cultivate it, to see how much greater it might become? Do you not know that power grows with exercise, and that it never grows without ?

Nor can we tell how powerful and extensive may be the influence of a comparatively feeble service. Whilst the writer was revolving the subject of these pages, it occurred to him to walk along the banks of the river by which the city where he lives is almost encircled. As he did so, a stone was thrown into the middle of the stream by the hand of a child, and he stood with some interest to mark the result. Ripple after ripple, in widening circles, made their way to the sides of the river, till at length the last of them reached the shore-an emblem, it struck him at once, falling in with the current of his thoughts, of all influence, and not least of the influence we may exert for what is right and good. It may, indeed, be but little that we can do—like the small stone thrown into the water by the hand of a child; still what we do and say, if faithfully and wisely done, may suggest some thought, or implant some principle, which will be a life-long power in the heart to which we speak ; and the soul we so influence may in its turn be a blessing to others, and they to others again, and so the succession may continue, and the results may be enduring as eternity.

In every case where Christ's servants do what they can, He approves and rewards them. He sees the service we render, and He estimates it according to our abilities and opportunities. He knows our work. Few else may know it; indeed it may be known to no one in the amount of toil and self-sacrifice which it involves; but He sees it, and He estimates it at its true worth. Yet let this be distinctly understood, that His apprec'ation of our service depends, not on the actual amount of the service,

but on the proportion it bears to our gifts and opportunities. You take up a subscription list, and as you read some of the largest sums which are acknowledged in it, you say, "This, and this, and this, how liberal!" It may be so; but before you say much about that, look at the names alongside which they stand. Considering the wealth of the givers, and taking fully into account all other claims they may have to meet, those sums, large as they are, may be the expression of only a poor and feeble love. Looking further down, you might see, under some such modest designation as "a widow's mite," a very small sum; yet, very likely, if the Lord were to put His mark of special approval to any names in such a list, many of the larger givers would be entirely passed by, and His chief praise would be accorded to some who had given very little indeed— not, of course, because their gifts were the smallest, but because they indicated a spirit of nobler self-sacrifice, and because they showed a larger love. So it is in respect to Christian work. Has He given a man ten talents? He is not greatly pleased-not pleased at all-if the improvement be only in the proportion of one talent. It is the loving, self-sacrificing effort which the service expresses, and not the service itself, which the Lord accepts; and His highest approval is given to that servant of whom He can say, "He hath done what he could."

Of all praise, there is none to be compared with Christ's. To the latest day of her life those words of our Lord would sound in Mary's heart like the sweetest music, and fill her with ceaseless delight. Let us always be very humble in the estimate we form of our services. Costly as was Mary's gift, she would think it poor and inadequate as the expression of her love; and so we must feel that our best services are of small account, and that there is much about them which needs to be forgiven. Still, if our conscience tells us that we have done our best for Christ, let us hear in that the utterance of His gracious and loving approval. If we work for the praise of men we shall have our reward, and a poor thing we shall find it; but we can conceive of no higher satisfaction than, at the end of a day of work for Christ, to feel that He has accepted it: and of all men he is the most blessed to whom, as life closes, the Lord Himself says, "Thou hast been a good and faithful servant; enter now into My joy."

The Lord Jesus Christ honours His true servants on earth. He promised to Mary an abiding earthly memory: "Verily I say unto you, wheresoever this gospel shall be preached throughout the whole world, this also that she hath done shall be spoken of for a memorial of her.” Those words describe the longing aspiration of ambitious men of every age, that their deeds should be trumpeted throughout the earth, and that the note should be prolonged for ever. Of numbers who have

cherished such aspirations nothing remains to tell that they ever lived. Their very names have passed as completely away as though they had been written on no other record than the sea-side sand. Even of those who are the best remembered, there is not one who has secured as widespread and enduring a memorial as Mary of Bethany. Men who never heard of Hannibal, or Cæsar, or Napoleon, have heard of Mary, and have called her blessed. So it will be till the last Bible is burnt up in the final flame; and even then her memory will be everlasting. Not any one of us, indeed, can cherish the hope of an enduring earthly remembrance. Little if any mention may be made when we have gone of aught we have done for Christ. Ministers, deacons, workers of every kind, however prominent their spheres of labour, and however efficient their service, are soon forgotten. But if the Lord Jesus Christ loves us, and approves our work, we shall "shine as the brightness of the firmament, and as the stars for ever and ever."

Inspired by hopes like these, let every one of us say, "Seeking the promised grace and help of Christ, I will do for Him what I can." S. GOODALL.

To every Man his Talent.

No human life is complete in itself. No outfit of individual life and character is full. There is always something wanting in every man's being and condition to supplement existing defects. This fact, as well as the fluctuation of our Providential experience, affords the occasion and the opportunity of a mutual ministry among men, designed to hold the race in the bonds of a close and sympathetic union.

The variety and irregularity of contrasted personal endowments suggest the same relation and duty. We have, each of us, something which we can impart to render another life happier and more complete. And this something we are bound to ascertain and to communicate. We may say, as did the Apostle Peter to his crippled suppliant, "Silver and gold have I none;" but we must add, as he did, "such as I have give I thee."

This word of Peter makes the motto of a truly beneficent life, and rounds out the full ideal of social duty. Our responsibility does not extend to what we have not. No matter how large and sovereign the need which appeals to our charity, our response covers the whole breadth of our obligation when we can say, with willing heart and ready hand, "Such as I have give I thee." It is not whether we have ten talents or one that determines the plaudit of the Judge at the last. The right and diligent use of the smallest and humblest trusts will, as surely as the same use of the largest, secure in that day the "Well done, good and faithful servant!"

Now, I cannot tell what that one personal gift is which each of you is to

supply in these mutualities. It may be more than one; it is surely one. So equitable is the Divine administration, so universal the prerogative of doing good and communicating, that each of you has some element of help to impart to lives that are, perhaps, far more richly endowed than yours, and yet are deficient in some faculty or force wherein yours abounds. Such as you are, you are necessary to the comfort and happiness of your fellows. God has not made you in vain. You fill a sphere otherwise unfilled. You represent a personal force and ministry otherwise wanting, and the loss of which were a subtraction from human good.

A case of physical infirmity and want appeals to you. If you have "gold," you may give that. If you have silver," and not gold, bestow that. If you must say with Peter, "Silver and gold have I none," still there remains to be drawn upon "such as you have." You may furnish a garment whose newest gloss is gone; you may offer a plate of food; you may at least give a kind look and speak a word of sympathy. The tender accents of your voice may be worth more to the sufferer than another man's shining sovereigns.

One comes to you for counsel in his perplexity. You have neither learning nor eloquence, perhaps. You cannot bring him, for his disturbing question, the decisions of philosophy, set forth in rounded periods. Well, you can tell him a bit of your personal experience, if your feet have ever touched the track of his inquiry; or you can seek to put yourself in his circumstances, and look with his eyes upon his environment, and tell him what you think you would do in such a pinch; or you can, at least, while pleading intellectual poverty, show yourself rich in sympathy and brotherly kindness.

A case of sorrow is before you.

You cannot restore the joys that are fled, nor bring back the bright face and dear form now for ever absent; but you can repeat some sweet promise of the Comforter, rehearse some grief of your own on which there fell a heavenly balm, or, if your tongue falter, give a loving grasp of the hand and drop a tear of sympathetic grief.

In the life of the home, it may seem to you that you are the humblest and least important element of the household circle. All right. You have not so large a power to guide and strengthen others as many another member of the group. But you can bring always a gentle presence upon the same, the light of a loving smile, the calmness of patience, the inspiration of hope, the charm of an unselfish spirit. You can take burdens, perhaps, if you cannot give gifts.

And everywhere in general society, you can move, not as one for whom the world was made, proclaiming by look and gesture, "Give me room! but everywhere seeking the happiness and comfort of others at cost of your

own.

Be assured, each of you in the fellowship of the Church, that you have a part to perform in the work of the Church. You may excuse yourself properly from one kind of demonstration, and another, and another; but something you can do, and such as you have you must give.

A. L. STONE.

Roger Williams.

WILLIAMS published two works which have greatly promoted his fame; and they are intimately connected with the two great enterprises of his life.

In a book entitled, "The Bloudy Tenant of persecution for cause of conscience, discussed in a Conference between Peace and Truth," he appears as the apostle of civil and religious liberty, and so he does in other works connected with it. The Rev. John Cotton, noticed in a previous paper, was the antagonist of Williams in the controversy; and both of them rang changes upon the revolting epithet "bloody," so as to make the use of it all the more revolting. Cotton replied to Williams by writing what he strangely called "The Bloody Tenet washed and made white in the blood of the Lamb.” Williams rejoined in another book, designated, with equally bad taste, “The Bloody Tenet made more bloody by Cotton's endeavours to wash it white." The circumstances which suggested to him the unpleasant title is explained in a passage which illustrates his style.

The book is written in the form of a dialogue between Truth and Peace. Truth is introduced, saying:

"It was no milk tending to soul nourishment, even for babes and sucklings, in Christ. It was no milk spiritually white, like those white horses of the word of truth and meekness, and the white linen, or armour of righteousness in the army of Jesus (Revelation vi. 19). It was in milk, soft, meek, peaceable and gentle, tending both to the peace of souls, and the peace of states and kingdoms.

“The author of arguments against persecution, as I have been informed, being committed by some then unknown close prisoner to Newgate, for the writing of some truths of Jesus, and having not the use of pen and ink, wrote these arguments in milk, on sheets of paper brought to him by the woman, his keeper, from a friend in London, as the stopper of his milk bottle. In such paper written with milk nothing will appear, but the way of reading it by the fire being known to this friend who received the papers, although the author himself could not correct nor view what himself had written.

"Peace. The answer, though I hope out of milky pure intentions, is returned in blood, bloody and slaughterous conclusions, bloody to the souls of all men forced to the religion and worship which any civil state or commonwealth agrees on, and compels all subjects to an undissembled uniformity, bloody to the bodies, first of the holy witnesses of Christ Jesus, who testify against such invented worships; secondly, of the nations and peoples slaughtering each other for their several respective religions and consciences."

Both these books were written and published in 1644, during the author's first visit to England, and the circumstances attending their composition he describes as most unfavourable; for he says he had to write "in change of rooms and scenes, yea, sometimes in a variety of strange houses, sometimes in the fields, and in the midst of travel." All this, as well as the fact of its being a professed answer to Cotton's arguments, must be taken into account in our judgment of the remarkable treatise, which is the main pillar