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IRST of all," wrote Paul to the Church of Corinth, "I delivered unto you that Christ died for our sins." The "first of all" here does not refer to priority of time; for Paul had sounded the gospel-trump through the streets of Ephesus, and under the shadow of Mount Lebanon, before he ever struck its key-note amid the voluptuous idolaters of Corinth. But it means that as the principal thing he preached the cross of the crucified Saviour. The Alpha and the Omega of his preaching was, that "Christ Jesus died for our sins." This was his faithful saying. Whatever else came second, this always came first; whatever else he omitted, he never omitted the very core and marrow of the gospel of salvation.

What Paul made first, the Word of God makes first also. The cardinal doctrine of the Bible is, that Christ died for the sinner's sins. Other religious systems make prominent the character of their supreme being, or the life of its teachers, or some ritual of worship. But the peculiar characteristic of Christianity is the sacrificial death of its divine Founder. The Bible does not underrate Christian ethics, or the spotless example of Jesus; but the sacrificial death of the Redeemer transcends all other truths in significance and saving power. As Dr. James W. Alexander once said, "He who would tear from the gospel the atoning death of the Redeemer, would drain away the vital fluid from vein and artery and heart. Of all objects in the gospel, that which stands in highest relief is—the cross! Of all its syllables, the most sacred is-atoning blood." Of all that my Bible tells me of my divine Lord, the most precious and the most memorable is, that he laid down his life for my sins. If I could deliver but one discourse to a congregation made up of all the dwellers on the globe, this would be my text,-"Christ Jesus died for our sins."

This is the text that has rung round the world whereever pure Christianity has found a voice. This is the truth that shook pagan Rome to its foundations, and has been an overmatch for the proudest infidelity. This is the truth that has lain warmest and closest to the Christian's heart in every age. This is the truth that awakens sinners and converts souls. The touchstone of

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every ministry is, Does the man preach Christ and him crucified? Wherever the most spiritual power is developed from a pulpit, wherever sin is most fearlessly assailed, and wherever the richest revivals have been enjoyed, there has there commonly been the most faithful preaching of the searching and saving doctrine of the Cross. For one, I hold that it is the imperative duty of every Christian minister to thunder against oppression, and injustice, and intemperance, and fraud, and licentiousness, and covetousness, and Sabbath desecration; but the true vantage-ground from which to assail all these tremendous sins is beside that cross where Jesus died to condemn all sin and to save the sinner.

If I were a member of a vacant church, seeking for a pastor, my first question would be, Does the candidate for our pulpit understand, and believe, and preach that the atoning blood of Jesus is the only means to save a guilty sinner? No matter what his erudition or his eloquence, if he lacked this "one thing needful." From the, most learned or the most brilliant discourse, that has no atoning Saviour in it, the hungry, unsatisfied believer comes away mournfully complaining, "He has taken away my Lord, and I know not where he has laid him."

But not every preaching of Christ's death is either scriptural or soul-saving. Theodore Parker sometimes spoke of the dying Redeemer in language that makes one's blood run cold. One man teaches that Jesus died simply to display his fortitude and his sincerity to a principle. A quarter of a million American heroes have lately displayed all this on a hundred battle-fields. Another man teaches that Jesus died to set an example. Another, that he died to reveal the wickedness of sin, and to make men abhor it. But, in our humble judgment, none of these theories meet the tremendous necessities of a sinful world, or the mighty demand of this plain gospel record,-"Christ Jesus died for our sins." This alone meets the demand; it was a sacrifice for human sin. It was a voluntary sacrifice; it was a vicarious sacrifice. Christ, having become man, offered himself as our representative, and in our stead, to make an expiation by his death for sinful men. By this sacrificial death Christ satisfied the demands of righteous justice. He exhausted the punishment due to sin

in his own bleeding person. His infinite dignity gave to his atoning death an infinite value. Whosoever believes in and accepts this atoning Saviour with heart-felt faith and obedience, receives pardon, grace, and the promise of everlasting life. Every living creature is invited to believe and accept the offered Saviour; and no man perishes for want of an atonement. "God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life." The three great ideas connected with the atonement of Jesus are substitution, sacrifice, salvation. Christ became our substitute, and suffered for us. Christ became our sacrifice, and laid down his life to take away our guilt. Christ secures salvation to every true believer and faithful follower.

These three ideas are distinctly affirmed in scores of passages in the inspired Word of God. In these three points the vast body of Christian believers agree. This

has been the common faith of Christ's Church from the day of Pentecost. Paul preached this glorious doctrine of the Cross under the shadow of the Parthenon. Luther preached this to slumbering Europe, and it rose from the dead. Calvin taught this. Cowper sang it in celestial strains among the water-lilies of the Ouse. John Wesley proclaimed it to the colliers of Kingwood, and the swarthy miners of Cornwall. Spurgeon thunders this doctrine of the Cross into the ears of peer and peasant, with a voice "like the sound of many waters." The heart of Christendom has ever held to this as the heart of Christian theology,-" Christ Jesus died for our sins."

Paul placed this precious truth "first of all." He hung it as high, and distinct, and clear as God hangs the morning-star. Where the great apostle placed it, the Church of Jesus Christ has ever kept it-the preeminent ensign and glory of the whole people of God.

UDGING from the private conversations we have with church members, and from the private notes that are often addressed to us, there must be a large number of professed Christians who spend most of their time under a cloud. But little spiritual joy sweetens their cup. But a few gleams of sunshine brighten their daily path. As for a happy and radiant day on the "Delectable Mountains," such as Bunyan gives to his Pilgrim, they do not know much more about it, practically, than they know about the Grand Lama of Thibet.

One of our parishioners writes to us that his Christian hope is wholly overclouded. He leads a circumspect life before others; but in his own heart lies an overwhelming mass of doubts, that rob him of his spiritual peace. He has become a chronic doubter. What Thomas was for one evening, this poor man is for nearly every day and night of his existence. It has become habitual with him to distrust the Word of God, to distrust its precious promises, to distrust the reality of his own conversion. He hardly knows what it is to grasp a revealed truth firmly, and cling to it, and rest on it, and grow by it as his hungry body eats and thrives on his daily bread. If the Apostle Paul should come to him and say, "I know whom I have believed," he would be very apt to reply, "Paul, how do you know it? I never have any assurance. I sometimes doubt whether my Bible is true, or whether Christ ever died to redeem me, or whether God's Spirit ever converted me. I am a terrible doubter."

Yes, friend, you are indeed! It is your own work. The man that does that miserable doubting lives and walks in your shoes. There is not another person's sin against you, but your own sin against your own soul, and against your God. It is your besetting sin. Not

merely your misfortune, observe, but your fault. God commands you to believe him, and you disobey. Christ bids you look to him, and you look away; to trust him, and you only stand off and question his truthfulness and love. He promises you that, if you seek the grace that is sufficient for you, he will answer your prayers. You are no exception to his fixed law. If Paul received from him pardon, peace, assurance, strength, and spiritual joy, so can you. There is a vast deal of self-conceit in that heart of yours, which pretends that what sufficed for Paul and for millions of others is not clear enough, or strong enough, or efficacious enough for you.

In addition to this subtle self-righteousness, you are also guilty of no little obstinacy. You hold fast to your doubts, instead of holding fast to Jesus. When these harassing doubts come to your heart's door, instead of bolting it in their face, you let them in, and sit down and parley with them. You harbour them; you do not resist them. To every sly sceptical whisper of your tempter, stoutly say, Get thee behind me, Satan! Cry at once, in prayer, for faith. Grasp hold of a promise, as sinking Peter stretched out his arms to Jesus. Turn away from Satan's suggestions to God's own declarations. That terrible habit you have contracted of disbelieving the Lord Jesus must be dealt with as a tippler must deal with his habit of indulging in the intoxicating glass. You must break it up, at whatever cost. Lay hold, with a death-grip, of God's Word, and say to yourself, "If I go any further in this way, I shall become an infidel, and a wretch. I will never tamper with my Saviour again. I will cling to him, if I perish. Lord, I BELIEVE! Help thou me to conquer that accursed unbelief!"

Depend upon it that you will never attain any sunshine of spiritual peace, or any power as a Christian,

until, in the divine strength, you overcome this guilty and deplorable habit of doubting. What have you ever gained by it? What has it ever done, but insult your Saviour? If you expect to venture on him in the dying hour, why not do it now?

It is said that Dr. Merle D'Aubigne, the great Swiss historian, was sorely oppressed with doubts during his student days. He went to his old, experienced teacher for help. The old man refused to answer them, saying, "Were I to rid you of these, others would come. There is a shorter way of destroying them. Let Christ be really to you the Son of God, the Saviour, and his light will dispel the darkness, and his Spirit lead you into all truth." The old man was right. He saw the fatal habit which the young student was acquiring. He knew, too, that the glorious SUN of righteousness could alone scatter, by his divine effulgence, the clouds that make a human life dark and dreary.

"Tis midnight with the soul till HE,

Bright morning Sun, bids darkness flee."

There is also another class of cloudy Christians, who suffer from their peculiar temperament. Such should be treated considerately and tenderly. They are periodically cheerful, and periodically desponding. Their usual condition is one of depression; but this is relieved by an occasional sunburst of light and joy. Then the barometer rises. The skies brighten. You can see the change in their countenance, if you meet them in the street. To-morrow the "east wind" will blow again, and his barometer will fall to the stormy quarter. No sun or star appears in his lowering sky. The worry of his business, the failure of his plans, the loss of his wonted sleep, or some painful intelligence,

have completely upset him, and his prayer sounds like the mournful wail of a captive, through prison-bars. Now, such a nervous, excitable, fitful Christian needs a large supply of grace. He needs, too, to look well after his bodily health. Watchfulness, too, is his duty; and he ought to face the very beginnings of despondency and irritability with as bold and prayerful a spirit as he would face a temptation to a fraud. He manufactures the very clouds that fling their shadows over his pathway.

How true this is, too, of that still larger class of professors who darken their own lives by wilful sin. They have sinned away their Christian hope. Their iniquities, like a thick cloud, separate between God and their own souls; the divine countenance is hidden, as in a terrible eclipse. Spiritual declension is fatal to spiritual peace. No church member who neglects his closet and the house of prayer, who pursues crooked paths in business, who indulges in fleshly lusts, or who is unfaithful to his vows, can ever expect to enjoy the blessed

assurance of hope." That is a fearful description which Bunyan gives of certain stumbling backsliders, who, having turned off over a “stile” from the King's highway, were left to grope among the tombs under the shadow of a dark and lonely mountain. As Christian looked at them, his eyes gushed out with tears. I have occasionally seen such backsliders awaked out of their guilty condition by some alarming providence, and crying aloud, "Where is now my hope?" If such an one reads this paragraph, I would say to him, You may find your lost "hope" only where Peter found his, when he "went out and wept bitterly." You may find it, in penitence, at the cross of Christ. Awake, thou that sleepest, and arise from the dead, and Christ shall give thee light!

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URRAH! Will Welling, I've such a piece of news for you; I would tell it to no one but you!" exclaimed Roger Bolt, as he met his favourite companion, with a face flushed with pleasant excitement.

this way with me, under the steep crags," said Roger, drawing Willy along by the arm. "You know that Sir John shot the male eagle two days ago, and offered a reward of a guinea to whoever should take the nest, as the eagles have done such mischief amongst the young lambs. Well, thinks I, I'll watch; and so I did—I played truant from school all yesterday."

"I do, though. I'll tell you how it was; just come

e ntinued the boy, "I saw the big mother-eagle, just at sunset, come and drop down where her nest must be;

just there-don't you see?" and he pointed about halfway up the high rocky crag.

"I see nothing there but a little brown bush." "That's the place; the nest must be just behind that brown bush, for it's there where the bird disappeared, and there's where she flew out this morning. Now, don't you think that you and I could climb up and get that nest while the mother-eagle is away ?" "It would be rare fun to try!" cried Willy. "It won't be easy work," observed Roger: "the eagles were cnnning birds to choose such a nook for their nest."

"Well," cried Willy eagerly, "you just wait till I've been to the town and bought the things which my mother bade me get, and you and I will set to climbing at once."

"I've no notion of waiting for you or any one else," said Roger; "now's the time to clamber up, while the fierce old bird is away. Put off your tiresome shopping till we have carried off the nest."

"I cannot put it off," said Willy Welling, "for mother bade me go directly; I ought not to stand talking with you here."

"I never knew such a chap as you," cried Roger Bolt, with impatience; "if your mother tells you to do a thing, you do it as if your life depended upon it. Why, my mother has forbidden me ever to attempt to climb up that cliff; if she has done so once, she has done so a dozen times-but I shall climb up this hour, for all that."

or his knee into every cleft, or clinging to any projection that could give him an upward lift. It was wonderful how, with pulling, and struggling, and scrambling, he managed to rise higher and higher. Of course, Roger could not go up in a straight direction: he had now to bend to the right to catch hold of a bough, now to turn to the left to take advantage of a jutting-out stone; and as it was impossible for him to keep the brown bush in view while he was straining every muscle in climbing, he was a good deal afraid that, with all his efforts, he might not be able to find it.

"I wish that stupid Will had been standing below— he would have called out and directed me," thought Roger, as at last he stopped to take breath, after having done what he felt to be-wonders. "I've got up a tremendous height from the road, but I've not a notion whether I should climb to the left or the right. I don't see, though, that I've much choice which way to go, for that ledge above me is the only footing I can reach from here, and my limbs are aching so terribly now, and my arms are so tired, that I shall hardly have strength to clamber up there. Oh, dear, dear, how my heart goes thumping! my face glows like fire, and I don't know when I shall get back my breath! Never mind, ‘faint heart never won fair lady,'-when once I stand on that ledge, I shall be able to look about me. I dare say I'm close to the nest."

Making an effort, the almost exhausted boy did manage to get upon the ledge; but he found it a good deal narrower than he either expected or liked, and the rock

"Then a pretty Molly you would be,” cried Roger, shrugging his shoulders with scorn.

Willy Welling flushed at the taunt. "Roger," he said, "it is written in the Bible, Children, obey your parents in the Lord, for this is right;" and without stopping longer, since delay was disobedience to his mother's command, Willy with quick steps walked away.

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"I don't care one straw either for his words or his example," muttered Roger; "though I'm sorry not to have his company and help in a difficult adventure like this. But certainly I won't stop for his nonsense. never knew a fellow like Willy-always thinking of duty, and of what he ought or ought not to do. He makes himself a slave to his mother, and she's not half so nice a one as mine. Why, my mother, she never thinks anything good enough for me; she'd rather dine on a crust than not give me my bit of meat every day; while Willy's mother-but never mind about all that," said Roger to himself, as the thought of his own parent's kindness did not make it seem a more right and dutiful thing to break her command; "my business now is with the nest. 'Twill be a pretty tough bit of climbing to reach that brown bush at that height."

So Roger, who was a strong and active boy, began mounting the rocky steep, clutching at every tuft or twig that could help him in his ascent, digging his foot

only, alas leaning a little outward. Even if there had been any little hole in this rock-wall in which a skilful climber might have found foothold, a great projecting bit of crag just above it completely stopped all progress. Not a goat could have mounted higher in the direction which Roger had taken. The boy, already tired out, now became very much frightened.

"I can't get up, and oh, how can I possibly get down!" he gasped forth. For the first time since he had begun his ascent, Roger glanced downwards, and, heated as he was, the glance made him shiver with fear. The lonesome road looked so terribly far below him, his brain seemed to reel at the sight-he dreaded to gaze down again. To get down, poor Roger felt, was quite as impossible now as to clamber up higher: he could not see where to set his foot, and if he should slip and fall, he knew that he would be dashed in pieces. It was horrible to the boy to find himself standing half-way up the great cliff, on a ledge but six inches broad, with not so much as a bunch of grass to hold by, and so much tired that he felt ready to drop. To add to Roger's misery, it seemed to him that the ledge on which his life depended was not itself very firm. He fanciedperhaps it was only fancy-that it was beginning to tremble under his weight! Roger dared not shake it by changing his posture from standing to sitting, as he would otherwise gladly have done; he was almost afraid

to shout out for help, lest the vibration caused by his voice should hasten the fall of what might be a loose fragment of stone, ready to fall crashing down with the wretched boy whom it now supported.

Roger's position soon grew to be one of agony. He called at last, loud and more loudly; but no sound was heard in reply but the echo of his own voice from the rock. The spot was so little frequented, that no one might pass by for hours, and for how many minutes longer would his power of endurance or the strength of his little ledge last. Roger had cried in vain for help from man; at last he gasped out a broken prayer to God. But the boy had hitherto cared little for religion, and he had no right to expect the same comfort from it as if he had made it his guide and his joy. Nay, instead of comfort, religion brought now to Roger only a new cause of terror. He might be, he knew it, very near death-his poor crushed form might shortly be lying where he did not venture to look; and where would his soul be then? Was he not engaged in an act of sin at that very moment-disobeying his God, because disobeying his mother? Children, obey your parents in the Lord, for this is right, rang in the ears of poor Roger. He had a thousand times gone against the wishes of his mother-so often, that his conscience had grown quite hard on the subject, and he had not dreamed that he was bringing himself under the wrath of God; but now Roger's sins appeared to him in a clearer, more terrible light than they ever had done before. And oh, how bitter to him was the remembrance of the love which he had slighted! what he would have given to have been sure that he should ever look on the face of his mother again, and have another opportunity of trying to make her happy! Roger might have been her joy and comfort, but he knew-too well he knew-that many a grief had he caused the tender heart that loved him so well. In his misery the boy cried to God to have mercy upon him, to spare him a little longer, that he might try to be, what he never yet had been-a dutiful son to his mother.

Suddenly the sound of a voice from below startled and sent a thrill of hope through Roger.

"Holloa, Roger! you up there!" He knew the voice of young Welling.

"O Will!" he almost shrieked, "quick! quick! call help! I can't get either up or down; my strength is going the ledge is trembling; if you're long, I'll be dashed to bits!"

"Hold on! I'll run for help!" shouted Willy.

Then a long, long silence succeeded, when every minute that passed seemed like an hour to Roger. He could not think what could detain Willy; nor could he imagine how any one could manage to help him down, as no ladder could possibly reach him.

At length Roger again heard a welcome voice; this time not from below, but from above.

"Don't be afraid: we've got up another way to the top of the cliff with a famous long rope, and we're making a noose at the end, that you may slip it round you and be safe."

"If it does not come soon, all will be over with me!" cried poor Roger.

Down came the noose over the rock, within sight of the boy, but, alas! not within reach of his hand. The projecting crag kept it full seven feet distant from Roger, who could no more touch it than if he had been seven miles off instead.

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I can't reach it-oh, what shall I do?" yelled out the agonized boy.

Quickly the rope was drawn up; another dreadful pause succeeded, then something dark came suddenly over the crag: it was Willy himself, fastened to the rope, holding the noose-end in his hand.

"If I throw it, can you catch?" cried Willy, in a tone so cheerful and hearty that it gave new courage to Roger.

"Oh, throw it, and quickly!" he exclaimed.

Willy threw, and Roger caught the rope, almost overbalancing himself as he did so. With trembling hands he passed the noose round his waist-he dared nct have trusted his life to his power of clinging. It was well that he had not done so, for the moment that, at a signal from Willy, the men above began pulling up the rope, the exhausted lad fainted away.

Willy, of course, knew nothing of this; he only knew that Roger was safely hanging below him, and would soon be hoisted with him to the top of the cliff. Willy had been in such haste to descend to the help of his poor companion, that he had not observed, when first let down, that he was passing a little brown bush; but now he uttered a joyous shout, which made the men above pause in their pulling.

"Hurrah! Roger, hurrah!" shouted Willy, eagerly catching at the bush; "here's the very nest, the eagle's nest, with the downy, gaping little monsters in it. I've got it; hurrah! I've got it! no more lambs shall they have for their prey."

As Willy's hands were both free, he was able, with a little difficulty, to secure the large nest, with two downy young eaglets in it.

"All right-pull away now!" he shouted. In a few minutes both the boys were drawn to the top of the crag. Willy naturally felt pleased and triumphant; but his joy was instantly damped when, on being released from the rope, he saw poor Roger, pale as death, stretched on the rock beside him. "No fears for him," said one of the men; "he'll do well enough; just dash a little water in his face; we'll take him home to his mother."

These last words reached the ear of poor Roger, who was slowly recovering. "Oh yes-to my mother; take me to my mother," he repeated, scarcely conscious of what he was saying.

Home to his parent Roger returned: Willy ran on