are needed and fulfil an equally important function. The sublime and commanding style of Isaiah should not put us out of patience with the plaintive tones of Jeremiah, nor with the homeliness of Hosea, or the abruptness of Haggai.

So much for moralizing on that point; we must make a halt, dismount, and come to closer quarters with this bay of St. Brelade.

What is to be seen? The guide-book tells of "a delicious little cove, with fantastic rocks and recesses, known as the Creux Fantomes, or Fairy Caves." Come along, worthy comrades, we will explore them first of all, and rest afterwards in some cool grot, where neither shall the sun light on us nor any heat. Shall we enquire the way? It may be as well; for where these fairy dwellings are, we are only vaguely informed they lie somewhere on the western side, but a mile or two more or less makes a difference to a limping traveller. Does anybody know of these wonders? It seems not. We get information at last about these "unknown, mysterious caves, and secret haunts," but then we learn, also, that "there is no practicable way to them." Not the first things which we have desired to look into which have been beyond our reach. It is disappointing though! Instructive, at least, suggestive also. There are unapproachable men as well as caves. How many preachers have affected mystery and educated themselves into obscurity. They have become, by laborious art, little else than spiritual painted windows, which admit only a dim religious light. Few have the presumption to try to understand them. They do not claim to be infallible; but none would question their right, if they styled themselves "incomprehensible." Their thoughts may be as wonderful as these Creux Fantomes; but, alas, there is no path to their meaning which an ordinary understanding can follow. Their jargon, it is to be hoped, is to themselves its own exceeding great reward; to others, it is sound and nothing more.

Adieu, then, to the fairies. Let us examine some more ordinary and accessible places. Here is the ancient church. Who was this Saint Brelade? Was he any relation of Ingoldsby's renowned St. Medard, who was so remarkably hard and solid about the parietal bone that his pate was not crushed even when the arch enemy of all saints hurled at it the weight of a great, big stone? We hope he was not at all of that breed, for we are not partial to those of whom the witty satirist sings:

"St. Medard, he was a holy man,

A holy man I ween was he,

And even by day,

When he went up to pray,

He would light up a candle that all might see!"

Well, well, what matters who the good soul was? here is his church, and a native ready to open the churchyard gate. Here on the left of the entrance is a good notion, a money-box for the poor, with an inscription in French. "Jesus, étant assis vis-à-vis du tronc, regardait comment le peuple mettait de l'argent dans le tronc." Mark xi. 41. A text even more suitable in French than in its English form: "Jesus sat over against the treasury, and beheld how the people cast money into the treasury." With that text before their eyes, surely many

professing Christians would contribute more, and in a better spirit. We should be ashamed to give grudgingly, if we felt sure that Jesus saw. This Scripture needs to be put up over weekly offering boxes, for it is generally neglected in the reading, all persons being in a hurry to get to the widow's mites. With all due respect to that most admirable widow, we are afraid that she has innocently been a shield for covetous hypocrites. Rich men contribute a guinea to some enterprise requiring tens of thousands, and they modestly say, "Put it down as the widow's mite." My dear sir, it was in the plural, two mites, so please make it two guineas, so as to be accurate in number, at any rate: and then remember, that she gave all her living, and you defraud the woman if you call your donation by her name, and yet do not give a tenth nor a hundredth ; nay, perhaps not even a thousandth part of your substance to the Lord. It were to be wished that some minute subscribers out of magnificent incomes would become "widow's indeed;" or, at least, give "widow's mites " in deed and of a truth.

The church-we are in it now-is a plain, decent, Christian place of worship, thoroughly well whitewashed. Capital stuff that lime-white to kill the Tractarian bug or worm, a pest very discernible in many of our parish churches, and about as destructive as the white ant in India. Churchwardens could not do better than try a coat of lime, at the same time remembering that the insect will cling to altar cloths, processional banners, or any other old rags which may be cumbering the place. If crosses, holy candle-sticks, censers, and other trumpery to which these creatures attach themselves could be removed, it would be well; but we beg the purifiers not to carry these implements anywhere near Dissenting chapels for fear the plague should spread there also. If a gracious providence should command a mighty strong east, west, north, or south wind to take away these creatures, we should greatly rejoice, for they cover the face of the earth, so that the land is darkened.

There were other evidences of purity in St Brelade's church, besides the fair white upon its walls. There stood a plain communion table, with four legs, simple and unadorned, and over it, as usual, were the apostles' creed, Lord's prayer, and decalogue. No frippery here. Moreover, there were suitable texts above and below each of these inscriptions; and we specially marked that over the creed were these words: "He that believeth and is baptised shall be saved," with this most appropriate text, by way of interpreter, beneath: "With the heart man believeth unto righteousness; and with the mouth confession is made unto salvation." We commend these parallel Scriptures to the careful and prayerful consideration of all readers of The Sword and the Trowel.

In the grave yard were the hillocks and stones which memorialise not only the rude forefathers of the hamlet, but many from far and near, who came to Jersey, saw, and died. Inscriptions there were, English and French, a few in unmitigated doggerel, and many more of the usual rhymes of the sort, to which Pope's criticism might be applied :

"Where'er you find the cooling western breeze,'
In the next line 'it whispers through the trees;'
If crystal streams with pleasing murmurs creep,'
The reader's threatened, not in vain, with sleep.""

There surely should be some censorship of churchyard poetry, which might be elevating in sentiment and expression, but is too often neither. We were fortunate enough, however, to stumble on one epitaph which we copied eargerly, for it seemed to us, in its way, to be quite a gem :

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Weep for a seaman, honest and sincere,

Not cast away, but brought to anchor here;

Storms had o'erwhelmed him, but the conscious wave
Repented, and resign'd him to the grave.

In harbour, safe from shipwreck now he lies

Till Time's last signal blazes through the skies;
Refitted in a moment, then shall he

Sail from this port, on an eternal sea."

The Eton boy's lines upon "The Conscious Water," which "saw its God, and blushed," were evidently in the versifier's mind in line three; and the ring of some of the expressions reminds us much of Watts' Lyrics.

We looked into the very ancient building called the "Chapelle des Pecheurs," or Fisherman's Chapel, and marked the rude frescoes, now happily passing away into well deserved decay. What men of taste can see in the worse than childish daubs of the mediaval times, we know not; they are not merely grotesque, but comic, and in many cases revolting and blasphemous. Venerate the old if you will; but let old idols, and abominations, " pourtrayed upon the wall round about," be devoured as speedily as possible by the salutary tooth of time. We should like half-an-hour with a stout hammer and a ladder in several of our parish churches; and we would leave behind us improvements in architecture worthy of imitation by future architects.

"Reformations which another,
Hating much the Popish reign-
Some faint, evangelic brother,
Seeing, might take heart again."

We, certainly, did not cross the Channel to spend our time inside a vaulty and dilapidated building, so away to the sea. What a splendid plain of sand; but see how it is stirred and moved by the wind. Such fine particles, in such constant motion, will assuredly blind us. Let us make a rush through it for the rocks, and then we can sit by the side of Mr. Disraeli's melancholy ocean; or, what Pollok calls, the "tremendous sea." Judge our surprise when we find that the raging sandstorm reaches no higher than our knees, and all above is clear enough. Odd, very odd, to be beaten about the ancles by a torrent of blowing particles; and up here, in the region of breathing and seeing, to be serenity itself. If our daily trials could be kept under foot in the same manner, how happily might we live. The things of earth are too inconsiderable to be allowed to rise breast high. "Let not your heart be troubled."

Out on the rocks, we enjoy the breeze and the view; and, looking back on the bay of St. Brelade, half envy the cottagers whose profound quiet is unmolested by the shriek of locomotives, the roll of cabs, and the discord of barrel organs. By us, the blue wave must be left for the black fog, and the yellow sands for the dingy bricks; but there are

souls to be won by thousands amid the millions of London, and, therefore, we will return to duty with willing step. With all the advantages of a country life-and they are many and great-the active servant of God will prefer the town, because there he sows in wider fields, and hopes for larger harvests. Dr. Guthrie once said, "I bless God for cities;" and he rightly called them "the active centres of almost all church and state reforms, and the cradles of human liberty.” We, also, bless God for cities, for there the willing crowds hang on the preacher's lips, there the laborious church is gathered, the student trained, the evangelist tutored, the mind inflamed by contact with mind, and the pulse of godliness quickened. We pronounce Raleigh's blessing on the country:

"Blest silent groves! O may ye be

For ever mirth's best nursery."

But, we choose to spend our days where larger human harvests, white for the sickle, wait for the reaper's coming.

WH

Fragments.

BY PASTOR C. A. DAVIES, OF CHESTERFIELD.

THE FOURTEENTH OF JOHN.

HAT a book would be the history of this chapter! It has entered many a prison, where men have lain rotting for conscience sake, and for the love of Christ: it has gone in like a sunbeam, changed the prison into a temporary heaven, and lined the fetters with silk. Many a saint, of whom the world was not worthy, has it prepared for the flames of martyrdom, girding them as with a robe of asbestos, so that they went fireproof to the flames. It has stood by many a dying bed, and spoken its inimitable consolations, casting the gleam of its lamp down the valley of the shadow of death. It has been a boat in which men have crossed the dark river-angel-wings on which they have soared to heaven. It has sat down by the side of little children, and thrown around their spirit its strange and lovely spell, till their hearts throbbed with a holy love to the Saviour. It has gone to the aged slave, after the day's labour under the sun and the lash, and poured balm into his stripes, and opened his eyes to descry the land of liberty afar. It has wiped the tears from the face of the young widow, has assuaged the mother's grief, when else she had wept her soul away into the grave of her little one. How many eyes have gazed upon it till they have gleamed with the light of glory?-how many reverent heads have bowed down over it?-how many tears have fallen on it: tears of love, hope, and joy-tears of glad surprise as they who shed them found themselves, after all, not comfortless? How many times has the book been pressed to the heart as the upturned face glanced heavenward its adoration for so priceless a treasure?

The Fourteenth of John is the angel of the Bible. It is the Barnabas,

the son of consolation. Many a Hagar has it pointed to the fountain. of living water. To many a disappointed Elijah it has spoken with the still small voice-to many a disturbed Paul has it whispered, "My grace is sufficient for thee." Blessed be Christ for the Fourteenth of John !

CHRISTIAN JOY.

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one.

THE joy of the Lord is your strength," said Nehemiah. No life can be a strong life which has not joy. Morbid melancholy is ever feeble. The joyous Christian can do more than the desponding The lad that whistles at his work does not one whit the less; the girl that sings her way to school gets there sooner than her weeping sister, and accomplishes more when there. Depend upon it, the more of God's music in our hearts, the more heartily shall we march to the battle. Joy is the soul of life: it exhilarates the whole being, it sets the lazy blood throbbing and pulsating through the vessels, and quickens the limbs to action. A Christian's joy should not depend on circumstances. A surrounding God is the Christian's circumstance; and God is always God. Let the world reel, let sickness fill me with pain, death take all dear to me, still thou, O God, art mine, and I can and will rejoice. "Whom have I in heaven but thee, and there is none upon earth I desire beside thee !" The Christian's joy should be lark and nightingale in one, to sing while the light of prosperity shines in the heavens, and still to sing when night has hung abroad his sable mourning, and put all other birds to silence. Do you rejoice in the summer? Any foolish gnat can do that. Rejoice in the winter also. Your stream flows from a fountain which can never freeze. "Be glad, then, ye children of Zion, and rejoice in the Lord your God."

NO CONDEMNATION.

WHEN a man enters into Christ, the bells for ever, henceforth, ring "No Condemnation." He sees around him no more prison walls; prison bars no longer obstruct the light; nor clanking prison chains confine his limbs. He no longer looks at the face of a condemning judge, nor feels himself surrounded by a solemn court, nor hears the sentence echoing from his conscience. He has escaped all these. The judge is become a Father, the chains have dropped at his feet; the prison is no more. He stands at liberty and breathes free air, and walks and leaps for joy. No condemnation! leaps through his soul like a life stream; it sings to his heart like a refrain from the golden harps above, and he stands a citizen of heaven, a child of God, ransomed, released, acquitted, saying, "I thank God through Jesus Christ my Lord." Not every one knows what these two words mean. Imagine them sounded out by a herald in the market-place. One listens a moment and goes on with his business. Another looks up from his pleasure and smiles at the unmeaning sound. Another hears not at all. But the words go echoing into the court-house. "No condemnation." Now! quick! Look at the expression on the face of the prisoner at the bar. He understands them! They are heard along the stony passages of the prison, and how silence listens breathless! the prisoners understand them.