itself: it has been used against me, now it shall be used for me," and thus in the eloquent language of Bossuet, "with the fortresses of Samaria he built the cities of Judah." Thus the subject begins to reveal itself, and we see how, amid these ancient names, often unknown and sometimes uncouth, the very freshest lessons may be gathered. It needs no Old Mortality to carve these letters afresh, or dig the moss out of them. They are always beautiful with suggestion to those who have eyes to see and ears to hear. May God give us both!

Is it not much the same as if a man should use the materials of his old self with which to build the structure of a new and nobler manhood? Suppose a man to have come over to what is expressively termed the Lord's side: we will ask, What have you done with the old material-is it to be left-is it to be utilised? Have you been so foolish as to leave all the old stuff in the enemy's hands? The stuff itself is not bad: it was only put to bad uses. We want you to bring away every stone and every beam, and with the old material to build a new palace. Once you built Ramah for the devil-now that Christ has taken you captive we want you to make an inquiry about the old stuff, that nothing be lost. Let us draw your portrait as you were in the old days. You were known for your energy: everybody used to be struck with your indomitableness: you were never tired; in the morning, in the evening, always the same. Yours was the planning head, yours was the inventive mind. "Shorten the programme!" said you; "I shall make a programme for you." Quick came the flashes of suggestion which instantly commended themselves to the judgment of those round about you. They used to call you the life and soul of the party. When you were not there, the jokes were few and flat, stale and unprofitable. The moment you came in, the sun seemed to rise, all the windows were ablaze with a new light, and the air trembled under the vibrations of a new and melodious voice. You were a grand devil's man-popular, clever, ingenious, bright, welcome everywhere. When you entered a When you entered a company, the company always said, "Now we shall have an enlargement of the plan." Very good. You have come over to the Lord's side, what are you now? How much of the old material have you saved and

appropriated to better purposes? In some cases, we fear, the disguise is so complete that your own mother would not know you now. You have succeeded in burying every talent, powdering every stone, burning every beam-the old material is not found among the resources of your better life. Ramah has not become Mizpah. You were once musical: your song was always ready: the company turned to you and said, "Sing us a song," and without affectation you instantly went to your music and sang, to the delight and joy of everybody round about you. And now you scarcely mumble a hymn in church, much less sing. Ramah has not become Geba of Benjamin or Mizpah. You have left the music with the enemy instead of bringing it with you and sanctifying it, by a new baptism, to higher and diviner uses.

You were always the last to leave the public-house; the last to get up from the gaming-table-you tired out everybody. Where is your energy now? You cannot bear the night air, you are afraid of draughts in the church. You, the grand old devil's Ramah, that could bear the storms of a thousand years, battering with their utmost fury upon the bastions-you always report yourself now as "Not very well, thank you."

Ah, what a fall was there! We know the reason of it all. You did not go to Christ until you were so emaciated that there was nothing left of you. Probably you never would have come if your blood had not cooled, if your passion had not expired. You came blighted, withered, blasted, without one drop of living juice in your frame. No other man would have taken you in but the Son of God. Others would have despised such offerings, but he, Man of thorns, Man of wounds, the bleeding Man of the bursting, saving heart, he said. "The bruised reed will I not break: the smoking flax will I not quench." We see the repeated miracle of his redemption in you, a repetition of the infinite miracle of his infinite love. The reed was bruised in the devil's service. In ancient times they used to play music on the reed, and you played music till you bruised and broke the reed, and he who is the Master said, "I think I can put this together again for you. Wait." Wait." The smoking flax might be "No, I will wave it a little in the air."

quenched, but he said,

That was the action of reviving the smouldering flax-waving it, shaking it, till the dying spark became a living flame. Perhaps, therefore, you are only under repair-you are only being shaken a little, and by-and-by-from the stones of the old Ramah shall be built the beautiful church of Geba and the palace of Mizpah.

What is true of the building up of the individual, is true also of the building up of the Church. It is recorded of one of the Wesleys that when he heard anybody singing a nice tune on the streets, he used to loiter about until he got the melody thoroughly into his head, and then he went away and set divine words to the prostituted music. He said, "The devil has all the best tunes." Persons looking at Wesley standing listening to the street singer, would say, "What, is he caught by the song?" and they might have attributed wrong motives to his standing there, but he was pulling down Ramah that he might built Geba of Benjamin and Mizpah. The tune that was used to carry evil sentiments or bad language was brought over to tell the world the great gospel. The tune that was used for evil purposes was sanctified to the utterance of such sentiments as

Depth of mercy! can there be
Mercy still reserved for me?
Can my God his wrath forbear?
Me, the chief of sinners spare?

That is what we call taking the forces of the enemy and building with the material the churches of the living God. If we were wise master-builders, we should make a point of finding a place for every stone we capture from the enemy. It is a mistake to let any stone be unused. The enemy will come at night and take it away and put it back in its old place.

We know there are some stones very rough and unshapely, but they ought to task our ingenuity and not excite our disgust. Where to find a place for this rude man: do not encounter him with dislike; accept him as a problem to be answered by the inventiveness which was so marvellously fertile in the days of your own hostility to Christ. The sooner you get the stones put into their places the better. Do not look much at a stone: do not walk round about it frequently for the purpose of ob

serving and surveying it, but as soon as possible put it to its best uses. In the olden times there used to be conversions. Men were turned to the Lord then with full purpose of heart. They declared themselves on the Lord's side. There are no conversions now. In the old, old time the minister used to preach for three hours, and then say he would have added more if time had permitted. Then they had conversions. Now we preach twenty minutes, and are applauded because we are so brief. Where is the result? Where are the turnings to God with full purpose of heart? Where is the crying out, sharp and piercing, like sudden agony, "Men, brethren, what shall we do?"

into the same quarters.

But let us try to tax our imagination sufficiently to suppose that there are conversions now. We are taking fortresses from the enemy now-what are we to with the old material? Hitherto we have taken it and we have stowed it away in softly cushioned pews, and we have taken care to sit so near the ends of those pews as to prevent any more stones being carted We have discouraged excitement and the age is cursed with indifference: we are all indifferent. This disease of indifference has settled upon our modern life, and now, 'tis only noble to be quiet: 'tis only grand to mumble so that no soul can hear us. We have entreated the old excitement to be quiet: we have implored it to burn its wit, to strangle its humour, to silence its music, and to nod assentingly to the pulpit twice every Sunday, and to be done with it. With the stones of Ramah we have built neither Geba nor Mizpah. I speak this to our common shame. If any man can answer me that the impeachment does not implicate him, I am only glad to be so far disabused and corrected as to my impressions.

Here is a man whom we have taken from the enemy who has a gift of music: what is he going to do with it in the Church? Let us employ him at once as a singing missionary; send him out to sing. He will find the voice, we find the words. Is it possible to sing the gospel? Verily so. In a recent walk I saw some little fellows about two feet and a half high-little bunches of papers on their arms, sitting on the steps and looking at one another so coyly and nicely, with unkempt hair, and their bare feet and their tattered garments—and there was

I, poor dumb priest, on my way to talk to the luxury of the age, and I felt the tears in my throat as I cursed myself. I would that some lady could have gone to those little fellows and have sung them some little hymn or sweet song. It would have been odd: it might have been useful. It would have created a laugh for the time being: it might have won a conquest. It would have been called ridiculous; in heaven it might have been termed sacrificial. What are you doing with the old material? I ask you for it, I claim it: I know the fire is upon it, and there are marks of evil fingers attaching to it, but every stone that has been taken from the enemy may become part of a palace-beautiful, because built for God.

Here is a man we have captured, who used to be quite famous for his humour. He was in very deed a wit. He saw the comical aspect of every question, he had a keen eye for the ludicrous, a happy tongue for the expression of all that he saw and felt. He is now in the church-what is he doing? Sleeping. The Church will not have him. The Church is wrong. We should make a modern Elijah of him, and he should taunt the priests of evil on their own ground and across their own altars, till they ran away for very shame. Such a man should have a function in the Church. We do not want his humour here, mayhap: let that be fully understood: but it is wanted somewhere in this heathen London. The Church has been unjust to laughter. It has left that stone in the devil's Ramah : it might have made a figure in God's Geba or Mizpah.

But is there not danger in employing such persons to do such work? Yes, there is danger in doing it; but, as we view the case, there is more danger in not doing it. We are too much afraid of danger. There was great danger in entrusting the revelation of Christianity to a few fishermen, ignorant and feeble in every aspect of social importance. We dare not have done it. We should hardly have trusted any one of these men to have posted a letter. But Jesus entrusted them with a letter for the universe. There was great danger in selecting as the patriarch of the Church a man who had cursed and sworn and denied his Lord. We should never have spoken to him more. Jesus, mighty Saviour, set him in the front; a supreme danger or a divine