with power to create a stupendous sensation against all corruption and unrighteousness, and for holiness and truth and peace! It is utterly absurd to raise the cry of "sensationalism" against every great and earnest man; and the time is fast coming when every servant of God shall be so earnestly engaged in good work as to have no time to speak contemptuously of any honest man whatever, much less of those whom the Lord has endowed with superior ability and talent, and who are blessed with unusual prosperity.

The time has not come to write a full exhaustive history of Plymouth Church, and it is to be hoped that such a time will not arrive for many a century yet, but still it might be profitable to dwell upon some of its characteristic features as a Christian church. It has been so exceedingly fruitful in all spiritual graces, the type of Christian life which it has exemplified, and still exemplifies, is of so high and perfect a character, that we are naturally anxious to know more about it. Let us specify a few characteristics.

1. First in order and importance come the Sabbath Services. Externally Plymouth Church has no attractions whatever. Its architecture is severely modest and simple. No proud and lofty spire greets the heavens. No marble columns adorn the entrance. One would never take it for a church at all. And the street in which it stands is narrow and dingy. But once inside we are instantly convinced that it is a noble place of worship. Here again we find the greatest simplicity, but it is a simplicity that touches tender chords in our hearts, and prompts us to say, if not in audible words, yet in soul-whisperings, "Everything here is conducive to devoutness of spirit and true piety of soul." Indeed, "so far as the essentials of a church building are concerned, Plymouth Church is a model." The acoustic arrangements are perfect. The preacher's voice is heard in every part with equal distinctThe seats are easy and comfortable. The windows are large and numerous, letting in an abundance of light, which we all so much need. The morning service commences at half-past ten o'clock. But even as early as nine o'clock strangers begin to gather around the building in hope of securing good seats, and also to avoid the crush later on. When the hour arrives, not an inch of space throughout the vast

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church is unoccupied. Usually Mr. Beecher enters early, and, hat in hand, steps on the platform, looking as fresh and strong and happy as if he had been a well-to-do Western farmer all his life.

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The first religious exercise of the morning is a voluntary on the mighty organ behind the pulpit; and in less than two seconds we discover that it is not an empty unmeaning ceremony, but in very truth an act of worship. It is the going out of a pious noble soul towards its Lord and Maker, God. The organist, John Zundel, understands his work to perfection. His execution is fine and touching beyond comment, artistically correct not only, but spiritually living. The instrument itself under his manipulation seems to be on fire with tenderest emotion, and vocal with songs of praise and adoration. Mr. Zundel and the organ are one; the organ is Mr. Zundel's tongue. Some time after his conversion he said to Mr. Beecher, "I can pray just as other people do now." 'Why," said Mr. Beecher, "what do you mean?" He replied, "I can speak my prayers out to God." "Well, how did you always do?" "Oh," said he, "I always played them on the piano before." "And you would think," adds Mr. Beecher, "that he did it yet if you heard him in his inspired moments upon the organ. It has brought tears to my eyes a hundred times. I have gone in jaded and unhearted, and have been caught up by him and lifted so that I saw the flash of the gates. I have been comforted, I have been helped. And if I have preached to him and helped him—and I know I have he has preached to me and helped me; and he knows not, and never will know how much." The church that has such an organist may regard itself as being very highly favoured. It is often an infinite treat to go to Plymouth Church simply to hear the opening voluntary by John Zundel on that magnificent and glorious organ.

Next comes the invocation by Mr. Beecher, which at once strikes the key-note of the whole service. It is usually very brief and simple, but exceedingly touching and profound. Then a hymn is announced, in the singing of which the whole congregation heartily unite. There is a choir of about a hundred members stationed right in front of the organ, but so general and hearty is the singing

throughout the church, that a stranger would not suspect that there was a choir. The excellency of the music at Plymouth Church is proverbial, and Mr. Beecher himself is modest enough to tell us that it is the singing that brings so many people there. The powerful organ accompanies, and most beautifully do the sound of the organ and the voices of the people blend in a sublime symphony of praise to the Most High. "I am accustomed to think of a congregation with an organ," says Mr. Beecher, "as of a fleet of boats in the harbour or on the waters. The organ is the flood, and the people are the boats; and they are buoyed up and carried along upon its current as boats are borne upon the depths of the sea. But the organ does more than merely accompany the melody. In nearly all the churches of America interludes are played between the stanzas. "Now the interlude is an echo, or a prophecy, or both. If it be an echo, it attempts to render in pure musical sound the dominant thought of the stanza that went before. If it be a prophecy, it sees what is coming, and prepares the way for it, and brings the devotional congregation to the next stanza. And if it be in the hands of a Christian man, and a man of musical genius, it may help much. Otherwise it is a mere noisy gap between two verses, a sprawl sometimes, an awful racket of chords, a sort of running upstairs and tumbling down again." But John Zundel has a musical genius, and knows how to inspire and enrapture the congregation with his spiritual interludes, which at times sound like snatches of the songs of the glorified. No wonder then that Mr. Beecher should passionately exclaim, "I wish John Zundel had a hundred thousand children, and every one was another John Zundel."

The Scripture lesson follows, which Mr. Beecher reads in a clear resonant subduing voice, making the meaning plain to every listener, and rendering the sentiment with exquisite pathos and simple beauty. Then comes the prayer, which is perhaps the most unique and spiritual of all the devotional exercises. Mr. Beecher is truly great in prayer. He prays as we have never heard any other man pray. There is a depth of feeling, a beauty and delicacy of sentiment, an utter forgetfulness of self, a child-like trust and confidence, a

transparency of hope and assurance in his prayers such as we seldom find in the prayers of ordinary men. Our judgment differs from that of many, but it is our profound conviction that Mr. Beecher is one of the most godly men this world has ever seen. Godliness is not seriousness, nor gravity of mien, nor severity of temper, but a condition of soul-harmony with the Most High, a state of inward and outward agreement with the Divine mind. In this sense of the word, Mr. Beecher is eminently pious; and nowhere is his extraordinary piety so perceptible as in his public prayers. He makes no outward display, but in the simplest manner possible carries his own wants and those of his people, his country and the world, straight to the throne. No class or condition is forgotten; and when the Amen has been uttered, every one feels that his feelings and longings have been expressed and carried up to heaven.

Another hymn is sung as enthusiastically as before, after which all the necessary intimations are made, and they are often a great host. Mr. Beecher sometimes talks half-an-hour before the sermon, commenting in a humorous and instructive style upon the different subjects mentioned or suggested in the various notices. The object in view, no doubt, is to point out the relationship that ought to exist between the secular and the religious, to look at political, educational, social, and purely moral questions from the standpoint of Christianity. Believing that religion is designed to enter into the whole of a man's life, and give to it a new colour and significance, conscious that ministers as a rule confine themselves too much to abstract doctrines and philosophical disquisitions, and painfully aware of the tendency to inconsistency and hypocrisy which characterises too many professing Christians, Mr. Beecher avails himself of every opportunity to apply the glorious principles of religion to the exigencies of every-day life.

As a specimen of the remarks he usually makes when giving out notices, take the following, which was made many years ago, in connection with a certain concert: "This concert, I perceive by the notice, is to be 'partly sacred and partly instrumental;' that is to say, one part is to be just as sacred as the other; for all good music is sacred, if it is heard sacredly, and all poor music is execrably unsacred." How

true and beautiful an observation, and how general in its application. Life is not what it ought to be unless all its parts are equally sacred. The sermon comes next, which ordinarily lasts an hour, and, occasionally, an hour and a half. He never preaches short sermons, as far at least as minutes and seconds are concerned; and yet no one ever dreamt that he delivers long ones. So superior is his ability, so thrilling is his eloquence, so intense and transparent are his thoughts, that whenever he begins to speak he instantly annihilates time for all his hearers. Good, profitable, and inspiring sermons are never long, no matter how many minutes and seconds it takes to deliver them; but a poor, lifeless, thoughtless discourse is a quarter of an hour too long though it take only fifteen minutes. How absurd for ministers to measure their orations by so many sheets of our modern sermon-paper! Mr. Beecher heeds not the time, but concentrates his attention upon the subject he may have in hand and upon the circumstances of his hearers. His only concern is to be useful. He is not an orator making a display of his eloquence, but a preacher standing in the room of God, and seeking to develop noble impulses and sublime aspirations and godlike sympathies in every one before him. It is for the production of these divine qualities that he is always labouring. In order to succeed he employs all lawful means within his reach. If art can help him, he appropriates it. If science can render any assistance he does not hesitate to utilise it. He brings everything under tribute to his sacred calling. What is the

central element of his ministry? LOVE. He loves God, and he loves men as the children of God; and in preaching he brings the whole force of his glowing heart to bear upon the hearts and consciences of those who listen to him.

"I have been to hear Henry Ward Beecher for the first time," writes one, “and I never shall forget the sermon. The rain was pouring in torrents, but his church was crowded. His text was, 'For they being ignorant of God's righteousness, and going about to establish their own righteousness, have not submitted themselves unto the righteousness of God.' He commenced with the statement that every man has a conscience, and proceeded to expound the truth, showing that each one, with this innate idea of right