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image or picture. What on earth do you wor-
ship?" "We worship nothing on earth," replied
the pastor; "our God is in the heavens. He
dwelleth not in temples made with hands.
what He says in His own Word." And taking
out a Bible, he read to the Spaniard these words
(Exod. xx. 4, 5): "Thou shalt not make unto
thee any graven image, or any likeness of any-
thing that is in heaven above, or that is in
the earth beneath, or that is in the water under
the earth thou shalt not bow down thyself to
them, nor serve them: for I the Lord thy God
am a jealous God.' And, again, listen to those
words spoken by Christ at the beginning of
Christianity (John iv. 24): 'God is a Spirit:
and they that worship Him must worship Him
in spirit and in truth.''

sermon was in simple eloquent phrase, and | round him. "How is this," he asked; "I see no running over with the old gospel-that gos pel which came down from heaven in the first age, and which our era finds still young, and still guiding men to the skies, as it will continue to do while sun and moon endure. And as if the preacher had come direct from another sphere, so did these men of Madrid gather round him and listen eagerly to him. There was wonder and awe, as well as earnest ness, on their faces. They were listening to tidings which had never saluted their ears before, and which, they felt, had a mysterious power to awaken all the faculties of their nature. This was no pantomimic scene, such as they might see any day in any one of their many cathedrals. It was a message from the skies: it was a matter of life and death and from beginning to end of his discourse, not an eye was for a moment off the lips of the preacher.

The building in which the worship was performed was plain and humble in the extreme. It had been a printing-office, and the only adornment its walls had received when it was converted into a place of worship, was a coating of whitewash. The floor was covered with benches. At the extremity of the hall was a small desk or pulpit, edged with blue cloth, and raised a foot or so above the level of the audience. A row of upright beams supported the roof; and two rows of panes of glass-which extended from end to end of the roof, for there was no window in the walls-admitted the light. A Ritualist might doubt whether worship in such a place where was neither crucifix nor blessed candle-could possibly benefit any one, or possess converting power. But the audience that day assembled in the Protestant Chapel in the Calle de la Madera were troubled with no doubts of this sort. They were intent only to hear tidings which were brought to them from another world; and to listen to a message which was spoken to them as it were by a voice from heaven.

Occasionally the Spaniards are struck with the extreme simplicity of the places of evangelical worship, and they express their surprise at the absence of all material symbol and visible object of worship. One day a Catalonian entered one of the Spanish Protestant chapels. He gazed

Thus the first lesson the Spaniard learns on stepping across the threshold of a Protestant chapel, is the spirituality of worship. In truth, worship as a spiritual act is a lost idea in Spain. It is a lost idea in all Popish countries. It is at variance with all the notions which have been instilled into the people by the teachings and practices of the Church of Rome. They cannot imagine how one can worship a Being whom one does not see, or how there can be devotion where there are no external ceremonies. In fact, beads, crucifixes, incense, and images are, in their account, the worship. Worship as an act of the soul they cannot conceive of. And so, when ushered into a place of Protestant worship, they feel as if suddenly launched into a region of nothingness: they are encompassed by a dismal void all their accustomed channels of access to God are shut, and they are oppressed by a feeling of helplessness: the habits of a lifetime receive a shock, and they feel as men from whom the vital air has been suddenly withdrawn, and who have been condemned to live in a new element. And even when the Spaniard does realize the great fact that God is a Spirit, and that his own spirit must come before this pure and holy Being, the idea is painful. He feels that he cannot stand in that awful presence; and fain would he again interpose priest and image between himself and the Jehovah in the heavens.

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But humble as is the Spanish Protestant

sanctuary in Calle de la Madera, it has a glory | which no one of the many magnificent cathedrals of Spain can boast. Theirs is the grandeur of marbles and oriels, of stoled priest and arched roof. In the other-that of the Spanish converts, to wit-shines the light of truth. In it was the open Bible and it might be truly said of it, "The glory of God did lighten it, and the Lamb was the light thereof." From that chapel there went up to heaven something better than the smoke of incense-even pure, fervent, holy wor ship. Its roof re-echoed the praises of men who had been brought out of darkness into light; the shout of those who had been redeemed from a great slavery. When Señor Carasco ended his sermon, and gave out a hymn, we shall never forget how it was sung. It thrilled us. We seemed to hear the voices of the men who died in the autos-da-fe. It carried us back to the times of Miriam, when, by the shores of the Red Sea, she led, with timbrels and with dances, the song, "Sing ye to the Lord, for He hath triumphed gloriously; the horse and his rider hath He thrown into the sea."

The scene had to us all the power which sharp contrast could give it. We had come straight, in a manner, from the horrors of the sixteenth century into the midst of this Protestant congregation of the nineteenth. We had passed the previous day in the Escorial, the palace of Philip II. Will the reader accompany us thither, that he too may feel the force of this contrast?

Thirty miles from Madrid, at the foot of the Sierra Guadarrama, is the palace of the Escorial. It stands in a spot so savage and solitary as almost to transcend the power of the imagination to picture it. Rarely has man chosen so dreary a region for his dwelling; and certainly never before was royal palace set down in a wilderness like this. It is not usually where icy winds freeze the blood and blight the landscape that monarchs love to dwell, but where the cheerful day opens upon smiling plains, with their peaceful villages and their flourishing cities, or where the blue sea, with its laughing waves, offers a pathway to the white-winged ships. Could the realm of Spain furnish no fairer spot than this for the dwelling of her kings? There was Seville, where the orange gives its perfume and the palm its shade

and fruit.

There was Granada, with its rampart of snowy mountains, and its matchless Alhambra, than which the hands of man never fashioned anything so airy, graceful, and beauteous. There was Toledo, so romantically placed on its cluster of hills, washed by the Tagus, and graced by the matchless monuments of Moorish art. Yet, from all these, and a hundred other spots of loveliness and grandeur, Philip II. turns away, to bury himself in the heart of this terrible wilderness.

What tempted him to do so? We know not, unless feelings akin to those which drove Tiberius to hide himself from the face of men in the rocky recesses of the island of Capri. But the dwelling of the Roman tyrant was not so dismal as that of the Spanish one. The smiling bay of Naples, the giant promontory of Sorrento, the palmfringed shore of Pausilipo, were daily before the eye of Tiberius. But only images of desolation and death presented themselves to Philip in the Escorial. The bare storm-swept summits of the Guadarrama leaned over it, while the slopes around were thickly strewn with boulders of granite which the earthquake or the tempest had loosened from the mountain's side. There was nothing in sight -no tender flower, and scarce a spot of greento soften the stern mood of the tyrant, or withdraw his thoughts from the terrible subjects which he day and night revolved. The laugh of happy childhood, the song of vine-dresser, the note of bird, broke not upon his ear. He had withdrawn himself from communion with nature as well as with man; he lived in the seclusion of a monk, seeing and hearing nothing that could awaken sympathy in his heart with any living thing. He heard only the tempest's howl and the avalanche's crash, and doubtless the only emotions it could awaken in his breast, as it thundered down the mountain's side, were regrets that there were not villages and cottages in its path in which old and young might be crushed to death, and have common burial. mon burial. So dwelt the man, in this grim desert, who perhaps beyond all the men of his age hated the gospel with a perfect hatred, and wore out life in a terrible effort to drive it from the world, and, in that attempt caused the death of a larger number of human beings than perhaps any other tyrant of any age or country.

In the centre of this great palace is the closet in which Philip toiled day and night at his dreadful work. In our survey of the Escorial we were of course shown this closet. We found it bare and unadorned, like the spot in which the palace is situated, and reflecting in this respect the ungenial, unloving, hard-hearted nature of the man. Its furniture was plain to rudeness; yet all is there even as it was when Philip was stricken with his death-malady and carried out to die. Most frightful the place for ever linked with unparalleled and unnatural crimes. One shudders to enter it, after reading of the wickedness which has been enacted in it; he fears lest some avenging doom should meet him on the threshold.

and the bittern shall possess it; the owl also and the raven shall dwell in it. They shall call the nobles thereof to the kingdom, but none shall be there; and all her princes shall be nothing. And thorns shall come up in her palaces, nettles and brambles in the fortresses thereof; and it shall be a habitation of dragons, and a court for owls. The satyr shall cry to his fellow; the screech-owl also shall rest there, and find for herself a place of rest."

Well, it was but a few short hours since we had been in the Escorial, with all the sad scenes it suggests seeming more than a memory, an actual reality even; and now, by a rapid transition, we were in the midst of a congregation of Spanish Protestants. We felt as if, without living through the intervening years, we had passed from the sixteenth to the nineteenth century. We had just stepped out from the midst of the autos-da-fe, the scaffolds, and all the horrible work of Paul IV. and Philip II., to find ourselves in far different scenes, scenes reminding one of a blessed and joyous resurrection. But yesterday we had seen, as it were, the witnesses of the truth put down, their bodies given to the flames, and their ashes scattered to the winds, or buried in the mounds in the burning-grounds. And to-day it seemed as if they were all risen, and not only risen but triumphing, singing with loud voices, and shout

It was, as we have said, just the day previous to our being in the Protestant congregation in Madrid that we had stood in this closet. We had sat on the very chair in which the tyrant sat, we had leaned on the very table at which Philip toiled during those dreadful years in the sixteenth century. There had he written those despatches which covered so many of the most flourishing kingdoms of Europe with burning and slaughter, with lamentation and woe. From this spot had these fiats of destruction gone forth. It seemed to us as if the past had returned, as if it was about us; as if Philip had just left his cabinet for a few minutes, and would straightwaying be back; and we felt as if the sixteenth century, with all its tragedies, was being enacted around us. We saw armies on the march; towns blazing in the flames of war; the cities of Belgium and Holland enduring the horrors of siege, or hiding from the fury of the tyrant beneath the waves of the North Sea. We saw men burning at stakes, dangling in halters, nailed to crosses, tortured on racks.

We saw canals choked up with the dead; fields strewn with corpses; homes converted into blackened ruins, and desolation reigning in what had lately been hives of industry and trade. We looked round and round, in what seemed more than fancy, on this boundless theatre of crimes and woes. Here, in this very closet, was all that wickedness conceived. From this cavern went forth all those lightnings of ruin. Let the curse of Babylon, we said to ourselves, be on this chamber and on this palace. "The cormorant

for joy. What a victory over Philip and Rome! Yes; it is the past that has returned. The martyr has come back, but he has left his sanbenito in the grave; he brings with him his crown, and that crown he casts at the feet of Him who is worthy. These thousand Spaniards, with voices melodious and loud, "as the voice of a great multitude, and as the voice of many waters," say, "Blessing, and honour, and glory and power be unto Him that sitteth upon the throne, and unto the Lamb for ever and ever." We felt as one who dreams. But this was no dream; it was a reality. Hark! Again they lift up their voices, and again they shout for joy. That shout will one day re-echo from the Pyrenees to Gibraltar, and, caught up by other countries, will yet be wafted over the globe. These are they who stand upon the sea of glass harping with their harps, and who sing the song of Moses and the song of the Lamb. Never before could

we enter so fully into the meaning of the prophecy which, speaking of the joyous scenes of the latter day, tells us that the "ransomed of the Lord shall return and come to Zion with

songs and everlasting joy upon their heads; they shall obtain joy and gladness, and sorrow and sighing shall flee away."

THE RELATIONS OF THE PARABLES.

BY THE REV. DR. CALDERWOOD, PROFESSOR OF MORAL PHILOSOPHY, UNIVERSITY OF EDINBURGH.

CCASIONAL and cursory perusal of Scripture is apt to induce the reader to regard the parables merely as flowers scattered over the meadow. They appear as evidences that the divine Hand has illuminated the page on which the truth has been written. They are accounted as the figurative and illustrative portions of the composition, relieving and adorning the Book. But what has been said as to the uses of the parables is enough to show that these portions of Scripture are not merely ornamental borders accompanying the text. Each one of them enfolds a portion of the truth; so that when the outer wrapping is unfolded, the exceeding value of the truth becomes more apparent, as the beauty of the bud is discovered in its opening. By its very nature, and in accordance with the Saviour's design, the parable primarily conceals the truth, and ultimately discovers it in the full relief of an appropriate setting. In every case, the simple natural story, selected from the ordinary scenes of life, is found to afford a setting, in beautiful harmony with the truth shining in the midst of it, and in no less admirable harmony with the requirements of the eye, which must linger long over the scene in order fairly to appreciate what has been embodied.

After the uses of the parables have been thus indicated, there is another subject requiring attention preliminary to an examination of the parables themselves. That is the relations of the parables to each other. On inquiry, it will appear that these stories did not drop from the lips of the Saviour casually or incidentally, as we might say, according to the suggestions of passing events; but methodically, and in relations chosen by the great Teacher himself, though they are plainly applicable to the circumstances in which they were uttered. The evidence of intimate relationship between them is clear and abundant. The parables very commonly appear in groups throughout the gospels, and are recorded as having been uttered consecutively. By simply taking this fact, patent on the surface of these narratives, without any minute criticism of the text, we may satisfy ourselves of the reality of close and important relations subsisting between the parables. Prosecuting our meditation on the line thus discovered, we may be convinced that the parables have been spoken and preserved on a definite plan, making a consistent whole. They will thus appear as a complete gallery of pictures, realizing in successive views the grand outlines of truth

which Jesus discovered in more formal discourse. The pictures may be hung on a variety of plans, considerably varying the relative effects, but the general result will be the same. The gallery is complete. In any case, the general effect is secured.

Take, for example, the parables of the fifteenth chapter of Luke's Gospel. The chapter contains three parables, which are three pictures of the same truth, each so different from the other as to present individually quite a distinct phase of the truth; while their relation is so close that all three are needed to give a full view. These parables are, the lost sheep, the lost piece of money, and the prodigal son. When these three are taken together, they present for all times the answer to the questions, by whomsoever raised, Why does God receive sinners? and, How does God receive them? The origin or source of salvation for the guilty is thrown open in a wonderful way in these three pictures. And besides, the plan of salvation is sketched with a sharpness of outline and a minuteness of detail not often found concentrated in a single passage of a more directly expository style. Perhaps, of a formal kind, the third chapter of John's Gospel comes most closely into comparison with this fifteenth of Luke, which is essentially of the pictorial or parabolic kind. To these two, the inquiring student of the Christian revelation may well be turned; and upon these two the faith of Christian men will rest with increasing satisfaction while the Bible continues the guide in study, and the plan of salvation the theme.

Taking first these three parables in the single chapter of Luke's Gospel, it is made clear that they are essentially connected with each other on account of what they teach. On the subject to which they refer, each one of the three is the complement of the others. Take any one of the three from its place, and an important part of the divine revelation is withheld--an essential part of the truth is omitted. Like the triple picture representing dawn, noon, and night, which artists delight to present in a single frame, these parables must hang together before the eye, else the effect is marred.

Inquire as to the source of human salvation by asking, Why does God bring salvation to the guilty? Each one of these parables supplies an answer to this single question. Each answer is distinct from the other two, and yet not only harmonizes with the other two, but manifestly supplements what is given in the others.

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Look on the picture of | wanted-something which will supply at once what is darker in the lost state, and what is brighter in the saved state-something penetrating more completely to the heart of human relations. And all this is provided in the matchless parable of the prodigal son. Matchless beyond doubt it is; and yet, had this been the only representation of the manner in which God brings salvation to men, parabolic teaching on the subject would have been incomplete. Still more incomplete, however, would parabolic teaching have been, if the other two had stood alone, without this wonderful accompaniment. God loves a repenting sinner as a father loves and welcomes a returning son.

There is a threefold answer. that shepherd, following on the track of the wandering sheep. Look next on the sketch of the woman searching eagerly for the lost piece of silver. Look next on that household full of rejoicing over the return of a prodigal son. These are the three answers; and the three are What is the source of human salvation? The threefold answer blends into one. It is Divine Love. But the answer cannot be reduced to simple unity. One picture would not suffice to convey an adequate representation. Divine love toward sinners is a love which seeks every wanderer, and the scene in shepherd life will admirably convey that aspect of the truth, while it will beautifully harmonize with what is otherwise recorded in the tenth chapter of John's Gospel-a discourse in which Jesus spoke of Himself as the Shepherd of the fold and flock. Divine love towards sinners is a love which values every lost one, however the worth of the soul be obscured by the corruption into which it is fallen; and the woman's search for the lost coin will suitably depict the wonderful truth. Divine love towards sinners is a love which welcomes with joy every returning wanderer who comes to seek pardon; and the scene which brings out a father's joy in receiving as from the dead a long-lost son, vividly portrays the great reality, so far as pictorial representation can. A divine love which searches for the lost, highly values the lost, and rejoices exceedingly in regaining the lost, is the love which has provided salvation for men. Take away any one of the parables, and the parabolic representation of the grand truth is glaringly incomplete.

But these parables not only represent that salvation is altogether of love; they also strikingly present to view the manner in which divine love brings salvation to the lost. As before, each parable gives a separate answer, and all three answers are required that the reply may be complete. Dogmatically it may be simply affirmed that love is the source of all, but pictorially this cannot be brought out without at the same time showing how love works to the accomplishment of its end. Desiring now to see how love brings salvation, look first on that scene in pastoral life in which the shepherd appears toiling and suffering in his pursuit of the wanderer until he finds it, when he lays it on his shoulders and bears it back to the fold in triumph. That scene is one part of the answer. As the shepherd searches for lost sheep, so does God seek for sinners. But this is only a partial statement. The most favourable scene in pastoral life cannot represent the whole truth. Look, then, on that other picture, which is in character an interior view." A woman with lighted candle sweeps the house as she searches for a lost piece of money. The indications of suffering in the former view disappear, but new aspects come into view, specially the disturbing process in the search, and the need for having light to play strongly on the scene. God causes a heavenly light to fall on those lost in darkness. Nor is this enough. Something more nearly approaching the great reality is

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Once more looking back upon these three parables, there is another bond of connection discernible, which brings to view a still more important relationship. Having found in them a threefold answer as to how God brings salvation to men, we may compare that answer with what is said on the subject in other portions of Scripture, as, for example, in the third chapter of John's Gospel, to which allusion has already been made. There we find a reference to the Spirit's part, the Son's part, and the Father's part in the plan of salvation. Men are to be saved by being "born of the Spirit”— "drawn" to the Son, "lifted up" on the cross for them, and blessed in the experience of the forgiving mercy and gracious love of the Father manifested through the Son. Just so is it that the threefold aspect of the plan appears parabolically in the fifteenth chapter of Luke. That the shepherd is the Son, and that the invisible Spirit kindles the light of truth for the discovery of the lost soul in its darkness and pollution, and that the father of the returning prodigal represents the Divine Father, will be admitted as essential to the interpretation of the parables. And if these things be plain, the relation of the three parables is not only very intimate, but quite necessary for completeness of representation. As the relation of the three persons of the Godhead is made apparent in the plan of salvation, so is it presented in pictorial forms in these three parables.

Similar evidences of close relationship subsisting between successive parables can be traced in other passages. For example, in the thirteenth chapter of Matthew's Gospel, there is a series of parables representing the spiritual kingdom in its relations to the world as a whole. First in this series stands the parable of the sower, in which it is seen that part of the truth produces no result, part only a temporary result, and part a permanent result. Next comes the parable of the tares, illustrating the sad reality that evil is also broadcast over the world, taking root and growing alongside the good seed of the Word. Thereafter, we have the parable of the mustard seed growing to a tree, representing the spiritual kingdom as a whole, and the outward benefits obtained by its presence in the world. And, finally, we have the parable of the leaven, representing to us the hidden but constant influence of spiritual truth, silently subduing the world to itself. That a

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