be enough. When the art of painting was dead, or had nothing in it to move itself or the world, one man, the scholar of another who had vaguely begun the work, brought it back to nature. Giotto, full of the passion of humanity, restored his art, and set it into centuries of movement, by returning to the simple and vivid representation of the common feelings of the heart. He painted motherhood and childhood, and wrote their emotions on the face. He painted the adoration of the soul, the bitter sorrows of loss, the rapture of the spirit rising to God, the simple loves and faiths of human nature. Even when he was most symbolic, he was close to nature. Men read clearly what he meant, and rejoiced in it. They drank again of the ancient springs, they felt the life of the world beating in his pictures. His whole society rose around him in excitement and delight, and his art became a power of life. Fire was brought to men. As it were out of nothing, a host of new creators rose.

When poetry in England had become, critical and didactic, and in it imagination and passion had died, when it only spoke to a cultured class of men, and these only asked of it fine phrases of the critical intellect, how did it once more pour forth fresh waters from the living rock, and quench the thirst of the weary pilgrims of eternity? It went back to sing of the common woes and common love of mankind, of the faith and hopes of common men, of motherhood and sweet-hearting, of "joy in widest commonalty spread," of all the universal emotions of the human heart. It sang of the simplicities of the flowers and birds, of the clouds and waters of the earth in contact with the heart of man, of the silent influences which flow day by day from the common works of God in the souls of the ignorant and the wise, of the shepherd and the king. The new birth slowly grew. A few poets began it, and touched some of the chords of this living harp of common nature. At last Wordsworth came, and smote, like the desert chief of old, the rock; and poetry was reborn. All the great singing of this century traces its living waters back to him. Poets rose out of the impulse that he gave in a rejoicing host. Again the world was taught to hang upon the breasts of Nature, and to drink

the milk of joy. Again it was brought back to the fountain of life, to the every-day heart of man, and its ever fresh outgoings. Again the world was comforted, healed, and inspired, taught to love, admire, and rejoice. The simple and quiet, the eternal and ideal, were once more made the heritage and the pleasure of mankind.

These two examples are enough. They might be multiplied out of history. Every resurrection of the life of the world has a similar beginning. And, if we wish to renew the religious life of England, to make our preaching and our practice into inspiration, let us return to the natural, to the common doings and wants of the human heart and the longing spirit, and put the things of mere knowledge, of criticism and analysis, of the barren intellect, into the second place. What have we to do with them when we speak and listen, heart to heart, soul to soul, in the hours of worship, when we commune face to face with God, with nature, and with humanity? With other things we have, then, to do,-with those immortal labors and powers of the universal heart of man which link us to all our brothers and our common Father, which grow not old, interest in which never fails, whose beauty is always new, whose variety is infinite, whose life kindles life, whose passion has its source in God.

But the subjects contained in this return to the natural and common things are not, it is often said, sufficiently great or interesting or beautiful or enough for a lifetime of teaching. That is the great mistake of the present time. It is that mistake which now makes the work of all the arts so poor, and especially the art of preaching. We have lost the sense that under the universal and common things of human nature, and not in the specialized and the uncommon, the greatest lies, and the loveliest and the most enduring. We have lost the sense that in those emotions which are common to all men, and not in the working of the educated intellect which is not common to all, that in love, and not in knowledge, the noblest and divinest powers lie. We have lost the sense that not in those ethical doings of conduct which can be prescribed and reckoned up, but in the passionate love of the spirit of man for the perfect-for that which never can be prescribed, and

never can be reckoned up—the highest glory of man is to be found. Were it otherwise, were the seldom seen the best, and the most rarely met with the most interesting, the world would be indeed misfortuned. Had nature made the most lovely things the least common, it were not well-bred of nature. On the contrary, God, the master of nature, has been so kind to us that all that we need for the exalting of the spirit for the fairest emotions of the heart, for all that the imagination can desire for its food, is scattered broadcast, in universal profusion, over outward nature and in the world of the human heart. Infinite beauty, joy, and love are poured out before us, if we will but open our eyes and love. Yes, under the common lies the greatest and the loveliest. In the daily life of the affections abides what is most interesting and most inspiring.

And the most enduring and the most moving subjects are to be found in the every-day humanities, in the common love of man to man, in the simple joys and sorrows of simple men and women, in the daily self-forgetfulness of mother and child, of wife and husband, in the feeling which we share with the animals, which have lived for countless centuries. Take only that selfsacrifice for the sake of love, which rejoices to be itself in every rank, and knows no caste. It is the outcome of the love we meet even in the animals. It lives among the savages: it moves in the criminal and the outcast. It rises, through a million varied forms, to its highest form, the sacrifice of a man for the whole world; always great, even in its lowest shape; always holding within itself an infinite capacity for develop ment; always so lovely that it moves the tears and kindles the passion for its imitation in all mankind. Indeed, what is not contained in it which is not most beautiful, -all sweet stories of motherhood and of the love of men and women; all tenderness of friendship, all longing of fatherhood for the life of children; all devotion of children to their parents; all courage and fortitude for one another in misfortunes; all sorrows nobly borne, all joys shared each with each, all patriotism, all the great deaths which have glorified mankind, all seeking and saving of the lost!

This, and things like to it, like in their simplicity of love, like in their commonness,

are the never-dying subjects; and in these abide and arise all the great poems, all the great stories, all the great pictures, all the sweet music, and all the great preaching which have inspired, exalted, and consoled the world. We think them too simple, too common for our work; and it is the worst mistake we make. Our deepest prayer should be to see them, and to feel them, and to make others see and feel them. In them we touch God and man; and, in bringing God and man together in them, we make religion. When we come closer, with the same thought, to the spiritual in us, the conclusion is the same. It is not so much the extraordinary states of the soul which are the most interesting as the most usual. It is not the spirit battling with strange and special trouble which awakens the longest desire to help, the deepest desire to reach the secret of life. It is the soul struggling with the common trials which come to all, following the well-known paths, in touch with the ordinary fates of daily life. Take, for example, but two forms of this.

The young man going into the world; the girl striving within to find room in which to act, to shape herself; God speaking to them both; how they will answer him, what form they will give themselves for the good and help of mankind; what they will be when a few years have gone by; the aspirations they possess, their freshness, their quick hopes and transient despairs; the strife, so silent and self-contained within them; their soul crying out for food, their voiceless prayers, their joyous praise, their wonderful ideals,-nothing is more common; yet nothing in the world is more full of undying interest to mankind.

That, however, has the charm of youth; but we call life commonplace in middle age, when its outward forms are fixed. The bloom has gone, the hot afternoon sun takes the shadows away which make various the landscape of life. There is nothing here to interest the preacher or the hearers! Nothing? What of the soul? What, if we look by love into the inward life. It is there, in middle age, that things are often the most wonderful. It is in this common earth to earth life, as it is thought to be, that the terrible trials come; that the battle between good and evil is the hottest; that the sorrows and the loves of life are most

profound; that the secrets are deepest, and the loneliness of the soul most uncomforted; that the deadliest ruin is wrought, and the greatest salvations won. You see men and women, grave, sober, dignified, moving, each in their business and their place, in fitness, through society. "Is this the end," we say, "of youth, this still commonplace? What is there to preach of here?" Oh, lift the veil, let the great poet pass by, let the lover of mankind open his lips, let us see with the eyes of God; and, lo! there is Hamlet and Othello, Lady Macbeth or Margaret, Zaccheus, Nathaniel, the Magdalen and Mary, a mighty world in each of sin or sacrifice, of unfathomed sorrow, thought and joy, of rending passion or quiet endurance. There is nothing commonplace.

Open your heart to love humanity, and you will have a thousand sermons in your experience with which to move the world. Return to nature: there is the secret of all the arts, and especially of the art of preaching.

Lastly, this is the way of all the great regenerations of religion, of the masters of preaching and teaching. When Jesus was in Palestine, and spoke the Word which now moves the world even more than it moved it then, how did he preach? what was his subject? how did he illustrate it? His subject was the human heart of man and the human heart of God, and he did not go beyond it. And the way in which he spoke of it was a way of simplicity. The wayfaring man could not err from his meaning, for all he said lay within the daily experience of men. And the illustrations he used were drawn from the common things of earth and air which lay before the eyes of all men.

What is God? How shall I know him? God is a father, Jesus replied, and loves us as we love our children. Think of all that your heart feels as a father, and then you will know God. Think of all you felt as a child when you loved your father most, and then you will know all you ought to feel for God and all you ought to do. "I have sinned, I have been plunged in sorrow, I doubt my immortal life. Will God forgive, will he console, will he make me alive again?" Look into your own heart of love for the answers. The kingdom of God is within you. What would you do as father

or mother? So will God do, only more abundantly; and we hear, like music across the ages, the parable of the shepherd and the prodigal son. So, by direct appeal to the universal feelings of the heart, Jesus explained the whole relation of God to man and man to God.

How shall I enter the kingdom? This is the subject of a thousand dissertations. Did Jesus discuss? He took a child, and set him in the midst. Think of the child,— how it feels and loves and trusts. There is the temper of the kingdom,—always, always the appeal to the natural! Of what kind is the kingdom, how does it grow, what sort is my union with God, how far must I sacrifice myself? Look at nature! at the growing seed, at the fate of the harvest, at the leaven in the meal, at the union of the vine with the branches, at the sacrifice of the shepherd for the sheep, of friend for friend. The whole of nature and humanity is a parable of which God and man are the interpretation.

Is morality enough? Can I say, "If I do this, I shall live"? Oh, no! You will only live when you love the perfect Love, and are never satisfied in pursuing it. When you love on earth, can you ever do enough for those you love? What says, That is the human heart? It was to that Jesus appealed, even when he held before us the unreachable ideals, and bid us strive toward them forever.

And to this kind of teaching, to this simple, universal, quiet, ideal appeal to the love in the heart of man, the soul of man answered as the waters of the great ocean answer to the sun and moon. Spring, after a long winter, came upon the spirit of humanity. A new-created world broke into life. Imagination was reborn in religion. Womanhood was re-created for mankind. Fresh waters burst forth from the earth, and fertilized the works of man. The arts found in his return to nature and to the ideal the food they needed. Painting, sculpture, poetry, recovered in recovering nature. And, foremost in the new life, and doing in the mightiest way the glorious work of bringing inspiration, healing, joy, and peace to every type and class of man, arose into nobility and power (out of this return to the universal heart of man and God) the art of preaching.

HOW TO USE IMMORTALITY.

From a Sermon by Rev. E. C. Butler,
Quincy, Mass.

In the mean time let us remember that there is nothing one-half so good as the plain, simple truth. Shall we go backward or forward? Shall we find in the past or the future the things for which we long? Shall we live in yesterday or the endless succession of to-morrows? Does the Easter season tell the story of humanity's past or of its future? Does the widening life of the human soul find its promise in the havebeens of the past or the yet-to-be of the days that beckon us on? O my brothers, these are great days! But there are greater ones beyond,-days that will fulfil the dreams of aspiring souls, days that will bring men together and God and men nearer to each other. But we must go on; for there is where the Saviour is,-in the new day filled with his spirit, which is not a dream of the vanished past, but a reality of the living present. We are not to dream of past glories, but of future accomplishment. "He that putteth his hand to the plough and looketh backward, is not fit for the kingdom of heaven." So let the years come as they will, we are not afraid. That which is of the earth returns to the earth, and is soon forgotten; but that which is heavenly is lifted to the stars by the Father's hand, and is given a place in the mansions of the blest.

BEAUTY OF CHARACTER.

From a Sermon by Rev. Paul R. Frothingham, New Bedford, Mass.

How poor and weak seem even our best phrases upon this subject! How little we can suggest of the actual beauty that moral life is capable of possessing! Think of the noblest lives you have ever known or ever read of; count over all their virtues, all their graces, all their high and excellent qualities: they are all faint adumbrations of the central glory of its beauty.

And, as there is no higher, no more en

trancing form of beauty than moral beauty, so there can be no higher calling for any one than to carve well the statue of his character, making it fair and beautiful of proportion. For this great end our powers were given us, our powers of steady endurance, of high ambition, of worthy appreciation. They are not ours simply to the end that we may carve out for ourselves huge fortunes, that shall melt away at the touch of death; nor to achieve proud reputations, though these are well. They are ours, that we may shape ourselves in beauty.

When we employ these powers on lower things, we are like artists who waste their talents in idle and useless work. There is a suggestive incident told of Michelangelo. It is said that in January of 1494 a most unusual storm swept over Florence, leaving snow upon the ground from four to five feet deep,—a very exceptional occurrence in that warm climate. The weak and worldly Piero de' Medici was at that time ruler of the city, and his word was law. Seeing the snow, he sent for Michelangelo, took him away from his workshop, where he was carving figures in enduring marble at which future generations should gaze in wonderment, and bade him form a snow statue in the court-yard of the palace. When it was done, he was so delighted that he brought the artist to sit at his own table.

Think of it! the greatest creative genius in the world wasting its powers on material that another morning's sun would melt away. Yet so it often is in life. In obedience to our own selfish commands and foolish pride and our worldly ambition, we put our hands to works and devote our energies to materials that are as fleeting as the mist, as unstable as the snow, and that vanish with the hour that gave them birth. But to shape our characters in beauty is an enduring work, that calls for reverent devotion.

We bow humbly before those who can put upon the canvas the visions of beauty that float before their imaginations. We honor and remember those who could take the still, cold marble and chisel it into features full of holy feeling. But let the canvas be a