Christ is eclipsed by the preacher-doctrinal statements are received on credit, because a free-thinking congregation cannot take the pains to think for themselves, and the humbling doctrines of the Gospel become a platform for the erection of self-conceit, and the evangelical preacher becomes an evangelical pope; for of a truth it may be said, that of all dogmatism, evangelical dogmatism is the worst. The reverse of all this is often also to be observed; but extremes form a striking characteristic of the age, and as the one furnishes matter for a present sketch, so the other may furnish matter for a future one.

Diotrephes was the son of a pious and a devoted country clergyman, and was destined by his father for his own profession. But the son early exhibited dispositions which would peculiarly require the regenerating influence of the Spirit of God, to constitute him an able minister of the New Testament. He was proud, selfish, hasty, and stubborn; yet these faults were coupled at the same time with intellectual powers of no mean character. Like other clever children, his smartness cast a shade, in the eyes of his parents, over his bad qualities; and though they were not altogether blind to them, they yet wanted vigour to restrain them as they ought to have done. The parental roof indeed restrained him from running into excess of riot; and his youth and ignorance of the world prevented him from knowing how low human nature can descend. "Am I a dog that I should do such a thing?" would have been the spirit of his reply, had any prophet hazarded a prediction as to what his fierce and ungoverned passions would lead him. Yet when at college he did forget the kindness of a father's counsel, and the tenderness of a mother's prayers; and from one step he walked downwards to another, until youthful lusts so obtained the mastery over him, and so warred against his soul, as to lead him into scenes, "of which it is a shame even to speak." His parents were not unaware of it; yet though Diotrephes loved his father, he could not, or he would not give up one evil propensity to save his life. He loved him, yet he broke his heart; he loved him, yet he assisted to send him to an early grave. The roar and riot of dissipation left him little time for reflection and when told that his father was dying, he could scarcely believe it. He determined, however, to obey a request more than once intimated, of going home to see him before he died. The day on which he went was uncommonly fine-all nature was dressed in her gayest garb, and the spirits of Diotrephes light and buoyant. He pulled out a letter which had been carelessly thrust into a side pocket-it was from his mother; and as he glanced over it, wondering when he had received it, his eye fell upon the words, "Love not the world, neither the things of the world." He gave a sneering laugh: "Oh, my good mother," he inwardly thought, You just talk nonsense, like all the rest of the religious, spiritually-minded folks. Not love the world! Why, what was the world made for ? Can it be supposed that the Deity would dress it out in all that is pleasant to the eye, and gratifying to the sense, and then, when we cannot help loving it, command us to hate it!" Again, his eye fell on the words, "Ye are of your father the devil, and the lusts of your father ye will do." "I am sick of this stuff!" he exclaimed, folding up the letter.

"Sick of what?" inquired a fellow-passenger in the coach.

"Why," he replied," of al! this nonsense about the existence of a devil. Sure is it not ridiculous to suppose a host of invisible beings made. by God himself, to teaze and torment us? Why the word devil is just a personification of the principle of evil."

"Then the word God is just a personification of the principle of vir

tue," returned his companion, for they are set in contrast-' if ye were of God, ye would hear my voice-but ye are of your father the devil.' Diotrephes, irritated at being so soon defeated, preserved a sulky silence during the remainder of the journey.

When he arrived at home, he found his father was dead, and that he had expired, murmuring a prayer for his profligate boy. The cause of his fa ther's death burst upon him with an overwhelming force. He looked upon the countenance; and the half-opened glazed eye seemed gazing upon him more in sorrow than in anger. He kneeled down, and kissed the cold, colourless lips and the tide of feeling began to flow from the recesses of his heart, where it had been driven by the shock; and the big warm tears came trickling down, and bedewed his father's face. "Speak to me, father dear, oh speak to me-I am come now to see you-oh, speak to me, speak to me!" He glued his lips again to his father's, and again the tears came like a torrent from their fountains. "I will never vex you again, father, never, never-ob, just speak one word to me!" The sneer which infi delity and dissipation had made almost habitual to him, disappeared as be turned to his surviving parent and exclaimed, "Oh, mother, he's dead!'! and the mother and son wept in each other's arms.

When the burst of anguish was subsided, his mother led him again to the side of the deceased, and in a firm and energetic voice, said, "I would not ask back the spirit from its holy habitation for all that the world can give. The wages of sin is death-but though that body is cold and stiff, and shall shortly moulder in the silent grave, I know that his Redeemer shall come again to clothe it with immortality: he is gone where God himself yes, God himself, shall wipe all tears from off all faces-and I shall yet behold him in a body fashioned like his own glorious body.But oh, my son! there is an awful silence preserved in Scripture about the bodies of the wicked! Your father's body and spirit shall inherit the power of an endless life, and this manly youthful form may be sent to the lowest hell!"

A groan burst from Diotrephes. "Mother, mother-I vow before God that I will never, never, act as I have done. I will give up immediately, and for ever, all my evil practices. I vow before heaven

"Oh, my son, do not vow in your own strength repent, and believe the Gospel."

"I believe it, mother-I see now why we are told not to love the world. Oh, I hate it, and I hate myself; and I would to God I had never been born !"

"Oh, my boy, do not curse, while you see before you the curse of an angry and a holy God upon his creatures!" Then raising her voice, she exclaimed-"Oh, death, where is thy sting? oh, grave, where" the effort was too much-and again mother and son wept in each other's arms.

From that hour, a change passed upon the character and conduct of Diotrephes. His spirit had been shaken; and with a gloomy moroseness he gave up all his former practices, and applied himself with vigour to his studies. But his repentance was not the soul-humbling repentance of the Gospel. The heart of stone was riven, but it was not taken away; he gave up the world because he was disgusted, not because he was crucified unto it, and it unto him; he ran from an unrestrained indulgence in vice, to a denial of the innocent enjoyments of life: he forgot that there is not a desire in the nature of man which God has forbidden us to gratify— that it is just the depraved abuse of those things which in their use constitute our duty, which makes us sinners-that being framed to love God, we

substitute self-he forgot all this, for he had been taught it-and so with much of that feeling which has plagued the world with hermits, and shut up in religious cells, men and women framed for society, he walked away from former companions and former doings, and set himself with zeal and determination to complete his education, and enter on his profession, in which he hoped to atone for his former crimes.

Diotrephes undertook the charge of an extensive parish, with all the ardour of a first love, doing first works, and determined to clear away the thorns and briars of his wilderness, and plant in their stead the flowers and fruits of paradise. In his congregation it might be said emphatically, that the rich and the poor met together; but disdaining to court favour or patronage, he assiduously set himself to visit the widow and the fatherless; to rebuke the old, instruct the young, and guide the souls committed to his care to the very gate of heaven. Amongst his parishioners, he found an old bed-ridden woman, who displayed an amazing knowledge of the Scriptures. She proved to Diotrephes a spiritual mine. Amid much folly and childishness amid much religious trifling and absurdity-amid spiritualizing every passage, and finding Christ every where, and personal assurance and appropriation, and many things he could not comprehend, he found piety and deep spiritual perception, and he had tact to separate the metal from the ore. She set him right in much wherein he was wrong, and gave him a clear comprehension of the evangelical scheme of doctrine. Every text from which Diotrephes preached, was regularly brought under her review, in preference to learned commentators; and many an hour would he spend by her bed-side, listening with profound attention to the strange mixture of pious, profound, original, absurd, and wild remarks, poured forth. by this shrewd but simple being, who had all the faults and excellencies of an abstracted and original thinker.

In the disposition of Diotrephes, there was no small infusion of that spirit which would "rather reign in hell, than serve in heaven." It had been manifested from his earliest infancy, and was now brought-unbroken in its strength, though changed in its object-to the exercise of his ministry. He walked round his parish, not as the man who would become all things to all men, if by any possibility he could save some, but as he to whom all things and all men must bow. He rebuked vice, not with the mild dignity of him who bade the sinner "go and sin no more," but with the awful austerity of one who could wield the lightning of "the mount," and bid its thunders peal upon the ears of the guilty. True, it went abroad of him, that he was a young man who had given up all for Christ; and as he was seen daily lifting the latch and entering the cottage of the lowliest of his parishioners, it appeared as if he was going about continually doing good-and having renounced the world, the flesh, and the devil, had fixed his eye upon eternity, as the polar star of his earthly existence. To himself, the world appeared for ever laid beneath his feet; he cared not for its frowns, he sought not for its flatteries it promised all things fair, but proved in all things false; its pleasures left too bitter a sting behind, for one who had devoted himself to the higher concerns of godliness, to bestow a single thought about them. This gave an ascetic tone to his exhortations, which along with the stern severity of his manner, inspired his parishioners with awe, as he walked before them in all the gloom of a hermit from the Egyptian Desert, or a Dominick from the recesses of the Inquisition. "Time is short," would he say, "the fashion of this world. passeth away." He called upon his people to renounce every thing that would impede their progress to heaven; "Whatsoever ye do, do all to the

glory of God" yet he forgot how much of our own glory we are prone to seek in God's-and overlooked how very possible it is for pride to walk in evangelical garb, and play such follies before the eye of heaven as haply even to make angels weep. He fancied that he was pressing on to perfection, because he was waxing sterner in disposition-and imitating more and more closely the great Pattern of perfection, by retiring out of the world, and keeping no company, even when necessary, with publicans and sinners. The peace he enjoyed was not "the peace that passeth all understanding,' but the peace of self-righteousness; the faith by which he walked, was not "faith on the Son of God," but faith in a right-hand lie-while, if he used not the language, he displayed the conduct of the Pharisees of old," Stand back, I am holier than thou;" and in keeping his raiment undefiled, he literally hated the garment spotted by the flesh.

Yet all this, combined with his natural talents, gained him a high name. His sermons were invested with a dark sublimity, which brought crowds to hear the "Boanerges" many months had not rolled on, before one carriage, and then another, were seen drawing up at the church door; and footmen, dazzling in scarlet and lace, were busily employed, Sabbath after Sabbath, in bowing in ladies fair and young, as his regular hearers. Gradually a character was stamped, not only on the man, but upon the place; the old church was cleaned and painted and repaired-the seats were made easy and soft-and many of the poor who had at first boldly taken up positions under the very pulpit itself, slowly retired farther and farther back, until they were terrified and shamed out altogether. Diotrephes began to model his style, improve his enunciation, and attend to his action. At last, some young ladies of his flock, whose connexions possessed great interest in the church, ventured to remonstrate with him. "He was too stern and austere he ought to recollect that rich people had souls to be saved as well as the poor, and required more spiritual attention, on account of their greater temptations. Moreover, he might win upon the gay and thoughtless by mixing in polite society, and by displaying those affabilities of manner, which, they were sure, were more congenial to him; for he rather gave an unfavourable impression of religion, by avoiding innocent enjoyments." Diotrephes was not very fond of receiving advice; but in this case the arguments had their weight. He saw more and more, the whole extent of his error; the artificial bulwarks which he had thrown around his character fell down one by one-he became affable-he became polite-and with all bis fiery impetuosity, changed from the gloomy to the cheerful clergyman. He was called out to preach charity sermons, and gathered great collections-he spoke at public meetings, and formed one of the attractions-he was invited to breakfasts, and was the charm and grace as well as the oracle of his society-he was placed on committees, aud transacted nearly all the business, and excited universal admiration by the immense work which he performed. The dear delights, and bewitching flatteries of the religiously dissipated world, stole softly over his soul, and awakened passions which had merely been asleep. He had, indeed, less time to visit his poor parishioners, and his attentions to his "woman old,” became few and far between. But then he could not really be expected to pay so much attention as formerly; his sphere of usefulness was increased and besides he was looking out for one who could share with him the troubles and joys of life, and that required both time and caution. The change which had passed upon his character, became every day more clearly marked. The dark stern zeal with which he had set out, was rapidly oozing from his finger-ends; like Samson, he was becoming shorn of

VOL. XI.

R

his strength, yet wist not that it was departing from him. Still, however, he maintained a high reputation; for he was not only eloquent and graceful, but he had grown to be sportive and gay, and trifling and zealous But, alas, he was not aware of the incongruity of a man telling his audience with all the airs of pedantry, that humility was the first of Christian graces; he forgot the possibility of a dumb ass being enabled to speak with man's voice, and rebuke the madness even of a prophet, while it neither could comprehend nor feel what it said.

One day he was dining out, among a number of his affectionate people, and where he was peculiarly permitted to act the lion. He talked with volubility, discussed every topic, and exhibited every argument in a new and clearer light. After the fire of conversation began to drop, and desultory subjects were merely producing a few occasional observations, music was introduced, and a young lady sang, and accompanied herself on the 'piano with feeling and effect. Diotrephes, though gifted with musical taste, and possessing a fine voice, had entirely confined himself to sacred music since his taking orders. He was now drawn out to make a few remarks on the science in general; and his vanity urged him on to display his knowledge. The young lady herself ventured to ask him to accompany her in a duet, but he hesitated, until overcome by the gentle violence of persuasion, he was induced to comply. Applause, not loud but sweet, followed 'and with less reluctance, he sang again. After the ladies retired, the hilarity of the company began to border on joviality; while the wine and the flattery reaching the head of Diotrephes, awoke within his soul those spirit-stirring influences which, in the days of his youthful folly, made him a favourite with the dissipated and the gay. Gradually, the joviality began to border on intemperance, and merry anecdotes and laughters loud went round the table. At rather a late hour they parted; and Diotrephes went home, if not intoxicated, at least not in a condition to ask a blessing from above. Next morning he awoke to a painful and horrifying sensation of his state. He thought of his father-he thought of his ministry-and after breakfast, unable to bear his reflections, he walked out to visit his old woman. Her pride had been touched by his neglect; and poor as she was, she received him drily and haughtily. After some conversation, she solemnly warned him against being led astray by the flatteries of the world. "Woe unto you," she exclaimed with energy, "when all men speak well of you, for so did their fathers unto the false prophets." The passage struck deep into the soul of Diotrephes-" For so did their fathers unto the false prophets ! Am I a false prophet, deceiving others and myself ?"

The more he revolved it, the deeper it sank. Like an arrow from God's quiver, it transfixed his spirit-and, though with streaming eyes, he uttered in truth for the first time, the Publican's prayer, he could find no solace for his agony. The fire which burned in his veins at last mounted to his brain-and many days did not elapse, ere the grave closed upon the mortal remains of one whose sun had gone down before it had reached the noon of life.

F.

ON WHITE SLAVERY, AND CHILD-SELLING IN DUBLIN.

TO THE EDITOR OF THE CHRISTIAN EXAMINER.

MR. EDITOR,-I cannot but consider, that the times in which we live, are better than those of our fore-fathers: mind is more on the stretch-humanity is more considerate-charity takes a wider flight-the devil's strong