life. The letter is not the law any more than the body is the soul. Saul of Tarsus was not without the outward restrictions and regulations of the law, but they are not the law, any more than the clay-Adam-exquisite model of a man-was a living soul, God's image, until God breathed into him the breath of life.

Thus the erudite young student of the law was in thicker than heathen ignorance as to three great facts which it most concerned him to understand: (1), he had no idea what the law was; (2), he had no idea what sin was; (3), he had no idea what he was himself. But a moment arrived when he suddenly discovered what the law was. He had probably been repeating the ten commandments, and as he rehearsed them in succession, each of them sent a thrill of self-satisfaction through his heart, and he said within himself, "All these have I kept from my youth up." Till he came to the tenth, the last. And as he read, "Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour's house, . . nor anything that is his," he said, "Why this is a commandment that I have quite lost sight of!" It came upon him with all the force of a new enactment. Why, this is a law that I have been breaking every day of my life, and all day long, from the time when I envied my elder brother's toy, and looked askance to see whether my little sister's figs were larger and nicer than my own, until this very day, when I wished I were sitting in Gamaliel's chair instead of at Gamaliel's feet. God be merciful to me a sinner! But I'll do better: I'll not covet any more. How strange I never noticed that commandment before!"

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However, he set himself manfully to keep it for the future, and he had no fear of failure in this, any more than in the other nine. Alas! he could not so much as walk from the college to the temple without breaking it many a time and oft. As he saw the multitudes give the profound salaam to the most illustrious scribes, he found himself longing that the most obsequious greetings in the market-place might be transferred to him; and as he heard the salutation, "Rabbi, Rabbi," he could not but feel jealous that the public gaze was fixed on others more than on himself, and that the popular shout took up other names more frequently and fervidly than his own. Thus he found himself coveting his neighbour's honours, his neighbour's reputation. And as he turned the corners of the streets, and saw the rich-robed Pharisee stand with both hands full of coin, and heard the trumpeter sound ostentatious summons to the multitude to come and scramble for the alms, he caught himself casting a greedy gaze upon the gold, and wishing it were his, that it might prove to him the purchase-money of influence in this world, and distinction in the world to come. Thus he coveted his neighbour's wealth and his neighbour's popularity. At last he felt, What object is there in life, what motive for the toils of study and the austerities of religion, if I may not desire to outshine my brother-man, and to displace those who at present are above me in the calendar of saintship and the roll of learned fame ?

Thus he found that selfishness was after all the mainspring of his moral mechanism, and the motive force that bore him on in his arduous studies and struggles after superior sanctity. He was making learning-yea, even the law of God-a ladder by which he might surmount his fellow-men.

But this was not all. Now he had discovered that the law of God claims cognizance of the affections, emotions, and desires, he found that Sin, -which he flattered himself he had conquered, because he had made his

life correct and unimpeachable,—Sin had but retreated from the outworks of his conduct to entrench itself in the citadel of his heart. And when the law summoned his heart to surrender, that it might there fix its seat of benign and holy empire, to the instant expulsion and permanent exile of every cherished longing for that which the law and providence of God denied him, he found that "the commandment," so far from subduing his sinful propensities, only irritated and inflamed them into a more desperate violence. He had hoped it would be otherwise; he calculated that the law would cure him of coveting even as it had saved him from outward vices and impieties. But, no. His corrupt inclination did sorely fret and fester under the restraint, until, like the possessed man in the Gospel, it became "exceeding fierce," and could not be bound, "no, not with chains." When the Divine law reiterated the prohibition, "Thou shalt not covet," his unhallowed passions and lawless appetites rose up in insurrection against it. He found that although Sin, as a practice, had been abstained from, avoided and abhorred, yet Sin, as a propensity, as a principle of his fallen nature, had only been all this time in a state of torpor, from which the piercing light and the pure and penetrating flame of the law of God made it start up into fierce and fatal activity. Sin had long lain coiled up in his bosom like a frozen snake, but "when the commandment came,” that last loud peal of Sinai's thunder, “Thou shalt not covet,” woke it up. That last flash of Sinai's lightning made it stir, and hiss, and sting. "Sin revived," and Saul of Tarsus was no more. He died. He lost his specious saint-like life. "Thou shalt not covet," was to him a crushing curse, a sentence of death, a death-blow. Sin took occasion by the commandment, and wrought in him "all manner of concupiscence," that is, all manner of longings for forbidden objects and contraband indulgences and denied gratifications,-"the lust of the flesh, the lust of the eyes, and the pride of life." He "had not known lust, except the law had said, Thou shalt not covet;" that is, he would have taken no notice of it at all. So long as he kept from the actual deed of sin, the lawless desire might have stirred and revelled in his heart, without his feeling the slightest condemnation or self-reproach. But now that he discovered that the unholy desire and the selfish wish were sinful, "exceeding sinful,”—that although to covet was neither a crime nor a vice, it was none the less a sin, although it did not exclude from reputable religious society, it did effectually exclude from heaven, he felt as if his whole soul were one creeping mass of unholy desires and selfish longings.

Thus sin, so far from being conquered by the commandment, only took occasion by it to work in him "all manner of concupiscence." The serpent Sin, when it found itself molested in its very den, wound itself with deadly tenacity, coil over coil, about his heart, and sent forth its whole swarming brood of evils, until he was covered with them, like the land of Egypt with its loathsome plagues. It wrought in him "all manner of concupiscence," all kinds of desires for those hurtful things which the law or providence of God denied.

This was his startled awakening by the penetrating beams of the law of God, and the deadly recoil and rebellion of his passions against the strictness and spirituality of that law.

This struggle of Sin against the law of God is still further described in the former part of our text: "Sin taking occasion by the commandment."

We may gather an unintentional illustration of this from the pages of a very popular and elegant writer, Washington Irving. In his "History of New York," he takes occasion to say, "For my part, I have not so bad an opinion of mankind as many. As far as I have observed, I am fully satisfied that man, if left to himself, would about as readily go right as wrong. It is only this sounding in his ears that it is his duty to go right, that makes him go the very reverse. The noble independence of his nature makes him revolt at the intolerable tyranny of law, and the perpetual interference of officious morality, which is continually besetting his path. Our ancestors did demean themselves honestly and peaceably out of pure ignorance, or, in other words, because they knew no better." Is not this a very instructive though somewhat amusing illustration-an unconscious comment, in factupon the expression in our text, "Sin taking occasion by the commandment"? This disposition to rebel against law because it is law, to forsake the right because we know it is right, which this shallow philosopher applauds as a "noble independence," is the very principle and essence of sin. It is the concentrated poison of the forbidden fruit, which has warped the very will of man.

How absurd and unphilosophical it is to call this perverse opposition to law, because it is law, a noble independence," will be seen at once, if we for a moment transfer the idea from the moral to the material world. Suppose now that the material creation were to spurn the law of gravitation, and the planets, instead of keeping, as they do, the line marked out for them by the finger of God, were to assert "a noble independence by striking out eccentric orbits of their own; and ocean should revolt against the Divine decree which says, "Hitherto shalt thou come, but no further," and every little atom in our globe should set up to be a nobly independent little atom, and fly off into space in search of its own private adventures,—what kind of a universe would noble independence produce as the substitute for sublime order and the dignity of law? Why, it would work precisely the same miracle of mischief in the outward creation which sin has wrought in that far grander creation, the soul of man. It would make it a chaos and a curse, a hell of darkness and confusion. It is this which makes sin what our text calls it, "exceeding sinful." This is the fatal clause in our indictment, this the grand demonstration of our depravity, that when the holy, equitable and benign restrictions of the law are presented palpably to the mind, stamped with the broad, bright signature of Divine authority, and commanding the suffrage of our reason and the verdict of our conscience, then our infuriated passions rise in rebellion against both the righteous enactments of the law and the high authority in Whose name they are proclaimed; and the will, instead of resolutely putting down the impious mutiny, traitorously places itself at its head.

Thus that very opposition to law which some shallow philosophers regard as indicative of a nobler nature than the Bible gives us credit for, is, in fact, our worst symptom of deep organic moral disease, the most melancholy exposure of our constitutional obliquity of will, the proof, in fact, that we are "shapen in iniquity" and conceived in sin.

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Sin, taking occasion by the commandment, deceived me, and by it slew me." Thus, in every sinner's case, the process of the Fall is reproduced, the first temptation is re-enacted, and Satan resorts again to his ancient and most successful device. As he began his assault upon our first mother by

quoting the commandment, “Yea, hath God said, Ye shall not eat of every tree of the garden?" even so with each of us sin takes "occasion by the commandment.” This is the master-move of the old serpent. He whispers to us, as he did to Eve, that forbidden objects are pleasant and desirable; that the law is locking up from us some precious thing, and that if we will boldly break the lock we shall find great spoil of gratification and happiness, and no great harm will come of it after all. We look at the forbidden indulgence as Eve looked at the forbidden fruit. We think as she thought, that we have found a casket of gems, a cabinet of treasure. We break the padlock of the law, and Death flies out. Condemnation seizes upon the conscience, remorse fastens upon the heart, the snares of death take hold of us. "When lust hath conceived, it bringeth forth sin; and sin, when it is finished, bringeth forth death."

"Wherefore the law is holy, and the commandment holy, and just, and good. Was, then, that which is good made death unto me? God forbid!" Is the benign and bliss-bestowing law of God-that mirror of the Divine perfections, that mainspring of creation's harmony-chargeable with my death? God forbid! "But sin," there lies the blame, "that it might appear sin,”might be seen to be what it really is, a most virulent and deadly evil,—so deadly that it makes the greatest boon of God become to me the occasion of death.

(To be concluded.)

HOW I ENTERED INTO REST;

THE EXPERIENCE OF AN AMERICAN MINISTER IN REGARD TO HOLINESS.

COMMUNICATED BY THE REV. JOHN DWYER.

Ir is with a vivid sense of my personal unworthiness, and of my obligation to the God of all grace, that I yield to the earnest and frequent solicitation of much-prized friends by the relation of my experience. That I feel reluctance in doing this I do not deny; not, however, from any indis position to give to the adorable Redeemer my poor offering of praise, but from a conscious shrinking from even the appearance of personal importance. If, then, I speak of myself at all, it is that I may the better magnify that sovereign grace out of which has flowed to my soul a new life of strength, of rest, of joy, and of triumph. I cannot describe all I have experienced of God's wonderful dealings; but I desire, with humility and gratitude, to say that He sweetly melted down my prejudices with His love, and shut my mouth for ever from cavilling at any difficulties in the way of faith, and from limiting the efficacy of the blood of Christ to cleanse us from all unrighteousness, and the power of the Holy Spirit to keep us from all sin. It pleased God in my earliest childhood to call me by His Holy Spirit. As far back as memory will allow me to go, I can recall seasons of great distress on account of sin. When other children around me were busy at play, I would often withdraw that I might find a place where I could weep before God in secret. The weary burden grew heavier with my increasing years. As fast as my mental powers were developed so as to understand

in a measure the law of God, my condemnation and ruin became more alarmingly real. I cannot look back to this period of my life as men usually do. They were not to me days of mirth, but days in which childhood's laughter was turned into weeping and its buoyancy into heaviness. My parents, who were intelligent, cheerful and exemplary Christians, belonged to a branch of the Presbyterian church, but resided at this time in a place remote from the sanctuary of their choice, and opposite a Methodist church. Here I occasionally attended, and it was when only thirteen years of age that the burden of sin was removed, and I obtained peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ. I remember the very place, time, and circumstances in which this wondrous change occurred. For many days I had gone sorrowing. I cried unto God for the pardon promised to the penitent, but He seemed deaf to my entreaties. One night, in the great congregation, I presented myself for prayer, but no peace came. I returned home, and retired at once to my chamber. The full-orbed moon was lighting it up with her silvery beams. I knelt near the window, and heard, or seemed to hear, the voice of One saying to me, "I love them that love Me; and those that seek Me early shall find Me." That promise was mine. It was my Father's assurance of a loving welcome. It was but a moment, and I was in His arms. It was a rapturous moment. All things were changed. Sorrow and sighing fled from my bosom. The Spirit of God witnessed with my spirit that I was born again. "Being justified by faith," I had "peace with God." I never afterwards had a doubt of my conversion. Even in the most unsatisfactory days of my Christian life I could not question the reality of the work of grace in my youthful heart.

In my twenty-first year I was ordained pastor of the First Baptist Church, West Philadelphia, then just organized. Here God greatly blessed my labours in the salvation of sinners. The church for many years was favoured with frequent outpourings of the Spirit. I often marvelled how one so partially consecrated could be so successful. I am conscious now that I was proud of my success, and that it was needful for God to humble and afflict me. It is of the Lord's mercy that I was not consumed.

After a pastorate of fourteen years, I accepted a call to Newark, N.J. Here also God wonderfully blessed my labours, and hundreds were added to the Church. But O, how were all my services mixed with selfishness, ambition, and pride! A consciousness of this often filled me with shame and sorrow. Then I would make a new effort to improve my life by more watchfulness, zeal, and prayer; and although failure was sure to follow, yet, not knowing any better method, I would tread the same weary road over and over again.

Severe afflictions visited me. The sweetest voice of the household group was hushed, the brightest eyes were darkened in death; health failed, friends proved unreliable, hopes withered, the way grew rough and thorny. My unsanctified, soul, instead of learning submission, became impatient of restraint, and sometimes murmured against the dealings of God with me, questioning His wisdom and doubting His love. These feelings did not always prevail. I had seasons of relenting. Mortified at the indulgence of unchristian passions, I could not refrain at times from weeping before God with true contrition of heart, but it was only to return to the same bitter experience.

After a residence of ten years in Newark, I returned, in the autumn of