the molten mass is poured into the receptive mould. Our sympathetic affections are as tinder, which readily kindles under the sparks that fall upon it, as metallic plates which, by a certain preparation, are made so sensitive that they take at once the features of any object so placed that the light from it darts and converges directly upon them. When Moses communed with God in the mount, he became unconsciously a partaker of the glory he was privileged to behold: he "wist not that the skin of his face shone while he talked with Him." We receive, because we cannot help it; but we also give, whether we will or not. The receiving is not more certain than the giving, and the giving is not less spontaneous and involuntary than the receiving. We give as the sun gives his light, as a burning coal gives its heat. The radiation is incessant, though no effort is put forth. What we give is what we have, as the influence of anything is just according to its nature. It is hence that a man living near to God is ever unwittingly attesting that nearness by qualities that flow immediately out of it. He becomes himself, in a certain sense, God-like-a "partaker of the Divine nature"--and this God-likeness, as a secret virtue, is continually streaming forth into word, deed, look even, as healing went out of Jesus at the touch of His garment. When Mary took a pound of ointment of spikenard, very costly, and anointed the Saviour's feet, the house was filled with the odour of the ointment. So of Israel, when they shall revive as the corn and grow as the vine, the prophet says, "The scent thereof shall be as the wine of Lebanon." All goodness is fragrant; is subtilly and penetratively diffusive; is an essence which a man breathes unceasingly into the atmosphere of his daily life, filling the house where he lives, the place where he labours, the whole sphere in which he moves. What was prophetically said of Christ, may be said of every one that lives near to Him, and because he lives near: "All thy garments smell of myrrh, and aloes, and cassia, whereby they have made Thee glad." Piety has no need of ostentatious profession. No ostentatious profession can attest its existence, or make known its quality. It is self-revealing, or not at all. Heavenly affections are easily distinguishable from earthly lusts. They have signs as marked as health has in comparison with disease, or as gentle culture in comparison with vulgar coarseness. They go out, in some perceptible property, in all the issues of life. Every sense is a channel, every power an organ, of their influence. They impress the whole character, pervade and animate the whole conduct. It is only stating the same thing to say, that divine fellowship is characterized by a divine temper and habit. It has a look, a speech, a manner of its own; not assumed, not intentionally singular, but beautifully spontaneous and natural. Easy was it for the rulers of the people to know that Peter and John had been with Jesus. Nor more difficult was it, from the shining of his countenance, for Aaron and the children of Israel to know that Moses had been talking with God. The man who lives near to heaven carries much of heaven about with him. So Cowper sings: "When one that holds communion with the skies 'Twere vain inquiry to what port she went : This proof of living near to God is less, perhaps, for the individual himself than for those about him. So far as the influence is unconscious, it cannot be directly appreciated as a test of character; but because it is influence, it must be effective in producing results upon others, and these results are evidence which even himself may in some degree observe and estimate. That piety is fairly open to question which produces no visible impression whatever; which wins no respect, gains no authority, excites no love; in presence of which falsehood has no hesitation, frivolity no reserve, licentiousness no blush. But of most heavenly virtue is that piety' which leavens wherever it lives, and leavens because it does live; which rebukes where it does not silence, and silences where it does not amend; which sees itself reflected in sweet and tender charities at home, and finds itself honoured in almost every form of gentle acknowledgment abroad. Such is the piety that lives near to God. What shall we say of the blessedness of living near to God? Much we might say, but our space will hardly allow us to say more than this-that there is no other blessedness. Pleasure there is, but this is too much allied to sense, and, like a fire, soon burns itself out. Peace there is, but this is negative rather than positive-the absence of disturbance and cessation of struggle. Or, if more than this, it is simply the quiet contentment of a satisfied mind, a mind with little aspiration, and no rapture that speaks of the third heaven. In its highest elevation, peace may be the steady continuance and even flow of the highest joy; but, then, it is only another name for blessedness, expressing the single quality of its calm perpetuity. Happiness there is, but this is too vague, too general, too much dependent on outward conditions, changeable with time. Or, if not, there is nothing of high spiritual transport in it, the fruit of high spiritual communion; it carries nothing superlative with it, does not reach the utmost exaltation possible to man. We must strengthen the term by adding another to it, otherwise it has no intensity. Even then it lacks the completeness of a thoroughly exhaustive expression; for a blessed man is something more than a very happy man. Blessedness depends on nothing accidental, and nothing earthly. It is no felicity of circumstances, no sunshine to be succeeded by shadow. It is not a mood of the mind, however rapturous, but a fixed frame and condition of it. It is the mind itself blessed throughout, in being naturalized to heavenly places, and harmonized to heavenly things. There is always something divine in it, something of God; so much, indeed, that where He is not, there it cannot be. Apart from Him, at least from a conscious enjoyment of His presence, there may be much of pleasure, something of peace, happiness, even, of a certain kind, but there can be no blessedness; none of that solemn, tranquil joy, springing up from the innermost depth of the soul, which, while surpassing these, also includes them, yet so as that each acquires a perfection which does not naturally belong to it. This blessedness comes from that which is highest in man, and from this because it is that which is nearest to God. Our Lord describes it as "a well of water springing up into everlasting life;" a well, denoting spiritual capacity as well as perpetual supply; water, as that which comes immediately from Him who is "the Fountain of Life," and who gives to "drink of the river of His pleasures." Man lost this blessedness when he lost the image of God; he recovers it when he regains the image. Like to God, he lives near to Him. Likeness and nearness are, if not the same thing, yet things related, and things inseparable. Each is but another name for blessedness, and both are blessedness unspeakable; they at once qualify for the enjoyment of God, and obtain God for enjoyment. What greater good than this is conceivable? What other good is good at all when compared with it? Men of the world "have their portion in this life; theirs is what the world can give. But he who lives near to God can say, "Thou art my portion, O Lord;" not what He gives, not what He has, but Himself. Other creatures receive at His hand; He giveth them their meat in due season. The sanctified believer does this and more; he receives both the gift and the Giver. The gift he enjoys, esteems, improves as a talent; but only the Giver is his portion. If there is blessedness on earth at all, it is this. If there is blessedness in heaven, it is still only this made perfect. Blessed, then, above all men, and blessed in spite of all sorrows, is he who can say, and sing while he says it— "Author and Guardian of my life, Sweet Source of love divine, Sheffield, December 3rd, 1861. J. STACEY. 13 A PLEA FOR LONDON. LONDON is a nation in miniature. The extremes of social life, pauperism and royalty, are found there. The beggar, the artizan, the sailor, the soldier, the tradesman, the merchant, the lawyer, the statesman, the noble, and the monarch, meet and mingle in the metropolis of England. Poverty and riches, debasement and dignity, squalor and splendour, ignorance and knowledge, folly and wisdom, vice and virtue, despair and hope, misery and happiness, dwell together in that great city, exhibiting strange aspects and startling contrasts. Society, like a vast forest in the summer sun, presents remarkable lights and shades; or, like a broad ocean beneath the wintry wind, develops extraordinary passions and energies. Philosophy, science, and art; politics, jurisprudence, and literature; agriculture, manufacture, and commerce, are located in London. Noble palaces and ample parks; elegant mansions and beautiful gardens; genteel squares and trim shrubberies; a broad river and a forest of ships; massive bridges, lofty columns, and majestic statues; cathedrals, churches, and chapels; asylums and hospitals; museums, theatres, and picture galleries; warehouses, banks, shops, and dwellings, are spread over a vast area, in picturesque and marvellous combinations. Europeans, Americans, Africans, and Asiatics; units of Chinese, Hindoos, Persians, and Turks; scores of negroes, Egyptians, Greeks, Italians, Russians, Germans, Frenchmen, and yankees; thousands of Welshmen, Scotchmen, and Irishmen ; tens of thousands of Englishmen from the several counties of England; and hundreds of thousands born within the precincts of London, constitute its numerous and thronging population. The mingling voices, the trampling feet, the rolling vehicles, and the noisy industry of immense and stirring London are heard from afar, by the approaching traveller, in one deep, monotonous, and thrilling hum, like the whirl of mighty machinery, or the sound of many waters. London is remarkable for its magnitude. The principal cities of populous countries are exceedingly large. New York, the principal city in the United States, is thirteen miles in circuit. Broadway, its main street, is two miles and a half long. Calcutta, the capital of India, is thirteen miles in circumference. Petersburg, the capital of Russia, is fourteen miles around. Its principal street is two miles long, and one hundred and fifty feet wide. Berlin, the capital of Prussia, is fourteen miles in circumference. Constantinople, the capital of Turkey, is fifteen miles in circuit. Vienna, the capital of Austria, is sixteen miles in circumference. Pekin, the capital of China, is eighteen miles around. Paris, the capital of France, is more than twenty miles in circuit. London, the capital of England, is more than thirty miles in circumference! London is remarkable for its multitude. Its inhabitants are more numerous than the inhabitants of any other city in the world. Turin has 150,000 inhabitants; Edinburgh, 160,000; Rome, 180,000; Amsterdam, 250,000; Dublin, 250,000; Calcutta, 350,000; Moscow, 350,000; Glasgow, 350,000; Liverpool, 400,000; Berlin, 450,000: Vienna, 450,000; Constantinople, 500,000; Petersburg, 500,000; New York, 500,000; Pekin, 1,000,000; Paris, 1,000,000; London, 14 approaching to three millions of souls! The inhabitants of London, therefore, are far more than twice as many as those of Paris, are more than five times as many as those of Petersburg, more than six times as many as those of Vienna, eleven times as many as those of Amsterdam, sixteen times as many as those of Rome, and nearly nineteen times as many as those of Turin. The inhabitants of Great Britain and Ireland number about thirty millions, and nearly one-tenth of these reside in London. London is remarkable for its spiritual destitution. In proportion to its inhabitants, London is supplied with less accommodation for the public worship of God than any other place in Great Britain. The Eclectic Review states :-"The amount of church and chapel accommodation in that mighty centre of government, literature, and science, is still far behind that of any of the provinces; for while the average number of sittings furnished by England and Wales, including London, is equal to fifty-seven in a hundred of the population, and exclusive of London to sixty-three, that supplied in the metropolis and its suburbs is only thirty. The actual provision required is for fifty-eight per cent. of the whole community; it follows, therefore, that there is a present deficiency of six hundred and seventy thousand sittings, and that, in order to meet it, six hundred and seventy additional places of worship are necessary, each furnishing accommodation for one thousand persons. It must also be remembered that the population of London is increasing at the rate of forty thousand a year, and that these require an increase of twenty new sanctuaries, at least, every year." Looked at in connection with the Sabbath-breaking and immorality which spread over London, like a turbid sea constantly sending up mire and dirt, this spiritual destitution is appalling to behold, and calls loudly upon us to mitigate it. The spectacle is not beheld unmoved, and the cry is not heard without a response. To relieve the spiritual destitution of London, Episcopalians, Presbyterians, Baptists, Independents, and Methodists are making liberal and vigorous efforts. Episcopalians are building new churches; Presbyterians are doing likewise; Baptists have built the large Metropolitan Tabernacle; Independents, by means of "The London Congregational Chapel Building Society," have erected several chapels, and intend to build others; Wesleyans have appointed additional ministers to labour in neglected districts, with the design of forming circuits, and erecting chapels; Primitives, Bible Christians, and Free Church Methodists are multiplying places of worship; New Connexion Methodists have recently provided new chapels, and hope to erect more. It is pleasing to note the recent progress of our Community in London. When I joined the Methodist New Connexion in the metropolis, many years ago, the day was a day of small and feeble things. Some time before, an unfaithful individual had taken Gibraltar Chapel from the circuit; soon after, Paddington Chapel was relinquished, and Squiries Street Chapel was sold for want of adequate support. Then, the financial difficulties connected with the chapel we held on lease in Deverell Street compelled its relinquishment. The little flock lost heart, and our cause in Southwark was in danger of total extinction. I resolved, however, that it should not perish without an effort to preserve it. To keep it alive, therefore, I took two upper rooms in |