SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS.

BY THE LATE REV. J. T. JONES, OF CHELTENHAM.

SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS is to some the misery of life. In vain they try to conquer and to crush it. Self will assert itself, will seek its own gratification, will feel its own importance, will creep into all our actions, will underlie and influence all our aims. Man's self thus becomes man's misery. It may be useful to inquire into those things which contribute to self-consciousness, and those reasons which urge us to aim at selfloss. One cause of self-consciousness in many may be traced to their physical organism. There are bodies so constructed that self-forgetfulness would be almost a miracle. So delicate is their nervous texture, that every influence surrounding them acts upon them, and creates sensations. An unfortunate being possessing such a body becomes what is termed a nervous man, which means, more correctly speaking, a nerveless man. A man all sensibility will find self-forgetfulness to be almost a hopeless attainment. A nervous man and a self-conscious man are almost identical expressions.

Another cause for self-consciousness may be found in the possession of an introspective order of mind. There are minds natively centripetal. Mentally and physically, self becomes the centre of existence. In the little world within, every thought is revolved. The passing word, the casual event, the sorrowful scene, strike home. The mind is so introspective that, when it has no food presented to it to "inwardly digest," it feeds upon and eats away itself. It would be as great a marvel for an introspective mind to become objective, as for a centripetal force to become centrifugal. One feels all the while that mental analysis is a torture, and yet one cannot help stretching one's wretched self on the dissecting board for the incisive knife to do duty on.

Another cause may be found in unchecked and untrained early developments. All human beings aim to be. To fill a place in human opinion as well as in human society. Self-consciousness will begin to be felt and to show itself in the home. Happy is that parent who trains his child to forget himself by living for others. In most cases the early developments of self-consciousness are allowed to grow, whilst vain and foolish parents, wishing to make their children prodigies, nurse the selfishness they ought to rebuke. And so it happens generally that a self-conscious boyhood is followed by a self-assertive youth and a selfish manhood and old age. We may undo, perhaps, the defects of early life. It will be a painful struggle to do so, and seldom is it done by a self-imposed discipline. Sharp, severe, smiting, must be the discipline that crucifies self.

The mode of life is either a friend or an enemy to self-consciousness. Some occupations take a man out of himself by not affording leisure for introspection. Some occupations afford the leisure without fostering the inclination for self-inspection. But some of the occupations of life can hardly be filled without involving daily processes of self-examination, and thus foster self-consciousness. The student and the preacher, for instance, as a rule, must have many interviews with self, and much intercourse; and when the intercourse becomes a habit, there is a danger of becoming on very good terms with self.

A morbid temperament promotes self-consciousness. A diseased way of looking at things, and receiving communications. There are some who regard every remark as directed against them; put bad constructions on well meant efforts for their happiness; if you praised them, would suspect you flattered them, or that you were ironical and insincere; if you censured them, would think you made no allowance for their infirmities; if you cheered them, would think. you unacquainted with their sorrows, and inexperienced, or you would not think them so easily relieved. And hence we learn to be weary of a morbid mind, and leave it to itself. Alas! how much it is left to itself.

Sometimes a sorrowful life-history has much to do with selfconsciousness. A blow on the body attracts attention to the smitten part. Pain creates consciousness, or rather quickens it. And some lives are a succession of painful circumstances and heavy strokes. Some seem a target for the poisoned arrows of misfortune; and the majority of human beings have enough sorrow to make them think of self. Sorrow acts on an introspective mind as a moth acts on a garment -pierces it, gains a lodgement, then eats it away. Sorrow promotes solitariness, and it is well if solitariness does not build around the human spirit a dark prison of self-consciousness. How dark, only those know who have felt the chill and straitness and misery of its imprisonment.

Cherished grief deepens self-consciousness. Grief is intended to be felt when God sends that which causes it. To feel grief is natural and wholesome. Stoicism is as remote from the spirit of religion as it is unnatural. Grief, however, must have its limits. Expressed: it will do the soul good. The outlet of smothering emotions removes obstructions to the healthy exercise of vital functions. But grief nursed inexpressed, unrelieved, will eat like a cancer into the soul's health, and will make its possessor, by the indulgence of grief, become an object of self-pity. Once let grief be nursed into self-pity, and the whole aspect of the economy of Providence will be altered towards us. We shall deem ourselves harshly and unkindly dealt with, and it will only be the action of a natural mental law if that feeling of selfjustification passes into stolid indifference, or wild, reckless, extravagant complaints.

The society we choose, or into which we are thrown, either corrects or cultivates self-consciousness. We shall be most likely to choose that society with which we have most affinity. Wiser should we be, if we chose the opposites to our habitudes and organism, that our humanity might obtain an equilibrium or balance of power by antagonism. But wisdom is the result of experience, a quality we are not inclined to borrow, although we do not possess it. So, commonly our uneducated instincts guide us in the choice of friends, and thus our self-chosen society increases our self-consciousness. And if our occupation, or

accident, throw us into society which is uncongenial to our taste, we fail to be benefited by friction with our opposites, because we endure it, feel uneasy and restless in it, and gladly return to our self-chosen society. The society whose atmosphere we daily breathe will as much affect our moral and mental traits for good and evil as the air will the lungs

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of him who inhales it. We should always embrace the opportunity of throwing ourselves into that society which will educate not pamper our peculiarities. A man self-conscious should aim to live in that society which, whilst by its superiority it reduces self-importance, attracts and invites emulation by contagious moral force.

Unsuccessful aims often intensify self-consciousness. When men float along the stream of success there is little time and less inclination to examine the vessel in which they sail. Self-elation, perhaps, may be a delirious form of self-consciousness, but, generally speaking, men of success are more elated with the success of their plan than with their share of the toil in unfolding it. But when men fail, they are thrown back by reflection and inquiry upon themselves, to find out the cause of failure. And, unfortunately, the men who do fail are generally selfconscious-perhaps fail because they are so,-and if so, self-examination ends in a morbid feeling of being a child of misfortune or ill-luck. Nothing paralyzes exertion like self-consciousness fed and nourished by the feeling that wisely and cleverly laid plans have failed. A being so benumbed is unimpressible by any stirring monitions or strong appeals. There is no inclination to try again.

Many other reasons might be assigned for the growth of selfconsciousness. We have pointed out those most common, and which ought to be avoided. It may be wise, however, just to point out the folly of self-consciousness, for we are sometimes more influenced by the ridiculous than the rational aspect of a question.

If we cultivate self-consciousness we shall unavoidably become either self-assertive, or self-important, or self-elated, or self-despairing: either of these, and perhaps all of these. And it may be well ever to remember that however big we may feel we shall always find some to dispute our size, some to depreciate it, some to deny it, some to exceed it; and this will expose us to disappointment, envy, mortification, and distress. It is wise to aim to feel little in one's own sight. So little that we do not feel big enough to draw vexing, invidious, and self-complacent comparisons with others. (And such a state of self-loss is quite compatible with a broad, muscular, healthy, and vigorous manhood.) If so little, we shall not be big enough to be a target for the arrows of calumny, envy, and detraction. However well aimed, and however charged with venom, they will not strike us; but if we are self-conscious and selfimportant, the arrows will find a home in our diseased sensibilities, will pain and poison: and thus the greater part of our lives will be spent in brooding over and vainly trying to cure those wounds which could not have been inflicted had we not made ourselves a mark for the calumnious, envious, evil archers of life.

MR. GLADSTONE AND MR. MOODY.-At the noon-day prayer-meeting in the Free Assembly Hall in Edinburgh, Professor Simpson, who had been in London and taken part in the services, related the following incident:-At one of the meetings Mr. Gladstone was present, and as he left he congratulated Mr. Moody on his broad, deep chest, from which he could speak audibly to such multitudes. "Aye," said Mr. Moody, "I wish I'd your head a-top of it."

No. II.-A Morsel or Two-Anglicized.

MANY are the hills which are crowned with snow when spring sunshine smiles in the valley-few, and only a few, retain the glistering wreath of whiteness throughout the year. So many seem to wear the garlands of greatness for a time; but soon they disappear, leaving the few again to be joined at another season by more, who, in their turn, lose their dazzling whiteness; and again and yet again summer finds the same few in their solitary glory. Thus, Milton and Shakespeare among English poets; so also, Christmas Evans, Williams o'r Wern, and Elias, among Welsh preachers. The former is the great name among Baptists, the second the hero of the Independents, and the last named the pride of the Presbyterians-all three being the boast of Wales. These names, if we may so put it, mark the "boiling point" in the thermometer of pulpit fervour in each of the three denominations.

J. Elias was a man of great eloquence-a rhetorical preacher, though self-taught. While he resided in Anglesea, in 1801, he was informed that several of the inhabitants in the neighbourhood had learned an interlude, which was to be performed on an open-air platform on Easter Monday. He therefore preached on the previous Sunday against the practice which was interwoven with so much immorality. The congregation were filled with fear. Those who had rehearsed the interlude went home to burn their books: there were never after any more interludes in that parish. At Rhuddlan he once preached in a fair that was held on Sunday, just before harvest. Sickles, rakes, etc., were sold, and reapers were engaged. Standing on the steps of an inn, he preached from Exodus xxxiv. 21. His "winged words" went right into the hearts of the people, who soon began to feel guilty. Sickles and scythes were hidden under the clothing, held behind the back, or put out of sight. The Sabbath fair received a fatal blow, and many were brought to a knowledge of the Redeemer. If the preaching of the simple gospel has such power, we need only to encourage ourselves, before the Spirit of God in order to brave successfully the present deluge of superstition and sensationalism. The pioneers of our own connexion are also proofs of the power of one man imbued with the Divine energy or inworking. Elias, being great as a preacher, would exert much influence in the formation of the national "style" among preachers. Dr. Prichard, who had heard him frequently, describes him as resorting to art in producing rhetorical effect. For instance, when, after a series of climaxes, he came to the close of his sermon, he would sometimes, in making the application, stop short-looking steadfastly upon the congregation. After a pause, he would say that he wished to convey to them an important truth, but was afraid they were not ready to receive it.

"Are you ready? I wish to speak; but will you receive the message?" Then, after another pause, he would with great solemnity apply the discourse to the hearts of anxious listeners.

John Jones, of Talysarn, was a preacher of considerable eminence among the Presbyterians, and perhaps a good specimen of style.*

* Vide Gwyddionadur, Vol. VI.

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Preaching from the text, "What shall it profit a man if he gain the whole world and lose his own soul," he refers to the mechanism and physiology of the human body, and argues, "What must the tenant be, if the house is so excellent ?" Then, rising into greater earnestness, from sentence to sentence, he inquires, "Why do I linger with these minor proofs of the soul's greatness? If you would clearly see the magnitude of its worth, go to Calvary; there behold the value of the ransom. Examine, if you can, the worth of the infinite atonement given for the soul's redemption. Can you measure the agony of Gethsemane? Can you fathom the mystery of Calvary? Then can you guage the worth of the soul." Thus with increasing earnestness he thrills the congregation; when suddenly bursting into a prayer, he ejaculates, "O Lord, show these people the value of their souls!" Amen, amen, is the response from a thousand lips. There is a short pause. Hearts beat with a heavy thud. The words are again repeated, "The loss of the soul is a great loss." Several pointed and terse utterances follow one another, each ending with the saying, The loss of the soul is a great loss." The preacher proceeds to say, "It is great because it is occasioned by carelessness. This gives poignancy to the recollection of any evil that has befallen us through negligence. There you find a home where the only child has been burned to death owing to the negligence of its parents. The cries of the child attract the parents. The father takes the tender thing in his arms; his rosy cheeks are blistered, his clothes blackened, and part of his body charred. The mother comes with agonizing shrieks to look into his face and see a lifeless body! Ah! how that mother upbraids herself. See how she tears her hair in soul agony; for she knows too bitterly, and alas! too well, that this was all caused through her negligence. Look at that parent twenty years afterwards. She weeps when allusion is made to their darling child; but what is it that stifles her words, that seems to make her heart stop? It is this, she knows the child was lost through carelessness. How this intensifies the evil! Ah! my dear people, if you experience this sad loss of the soul, you will see that it is all through carelessness. The memory of your fatal negligence will linger in your woe-carelessness did it all. Oh! oh! my dear people, what must it be to lose the soul through negligence!" After thus dwelling upon the loss of the soul until all hearers are filled with anxiety, the preacher, calmly surveying the congregation, is evidently moved by a revulsion of thought. His intense feeling seems to be mollified by a light that kindles in his countenance. In an altered tone he joyfully exclaims, "There is a way to save the soul!" Again he calls out in louder tones, with beaming countenance, "Yes, there is a way to save the soul: it need not be a loss!" The congregation of some seven thousand people, assembled in the open-air, burst out from their previous stillness, which was only broken by a few "Amens," into a shout of "Thanks be to God," "Glory;" and in a few minutes the sermon is over.

The concluding extract must be illustrative of Christmas Evans, whom a popular English minister recently said could, if he wished, preach standing on his head, so natural was it to him. True in such cases is the remark of Emerson, that what a man can do best he does easiest. The text which our extract refers to is "When the unclean spirit is gone out of a man, he walketh through dry places," etc.Luke xi. 24. The remarks of Christmas Evans have been preserved by Brutus, a Welsh writer, and my translation is not a very good medium," I fear. Christmas Evans, in referring to the unclean spirit proceeding through the dry places of the earth, remarks: :

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I see the unclean spirit, like a winged dragon with contorted tail, rising in circular flight higher and higher into the air, peering into the distance for some place whereupon he may rest. After casting his fiery glances around, he sees in one direction a youth in the first bloom of manhood, and in the fulness of his strength; he is seated on the shafts of the cart which he drives to fetch lime. "There he is," shrieks the hellish dragon' "his veins are filled with blood, and his bones with marrow. I shall throw sparks from the great fire-heap into his bosom. I will set all his passions on fire. I will lead him from bad to worse,