saint a glimpse of heaven, ere he had shaken off his tabernacle of earth. You must have read, I trust you have often read, the impressive and interesting account which St. Luke has given of this last hour of the martyr's triumph. To-day, when we are considering the Holy Spirit as the Comforter of the Christian's soul, it is doubly precious to hear how he once consoled the agonies of a Christian's suffering. Stephen had made a triumphant defence-had silenced the cavillings of his adversaries—had stung them to the heart by his reasoning, although he could not turn that heart from its obduracy. In the expressive language of the apostle," they gnashed upon him with their teeth." And now, my brethren, attend, I beseech you, to the conduct of the seemingly friendless captive. Did he supplicate for mercy from his murderers? Did he tremble even at their ferocity, or shrink from the fate which awaited him? We read not that a tear was shed, that a limb shook, or an eye quivered. And who was his comforter in this hour of his deepest agony? Ask ye who, my brethren? Listen to the sacred historian's words of fire, and if ye can have a doubt, it will be fully removed. "But he, being full of the Holy Ghost, looked up steadfastly into heaven, and saw the glory of God, and Jesus standing on the right hand of God."

Gloriously and graciously in this case were

the Saviour's prophetic words fulfilled: "I will not leave you comfortless." Mercifully indeed, mercifully almost beyond hope, did the promised Comforter visit his servant in his affliction. And if we follow the survivors of this first champion of our holy faith, through the varied scenes of their eventful pilgrimage, we shall find in all the same cheerful and unflinching zeal, the same constant and unfading support, which blessed his latest hours, and curtained his bed of death with the glorious vision of God's eternal rest. That Holy Spirit was ever present with them, to give them courage in the hour of danger, and a cheerful mind even in the midst of persecution. Let us follow St. Peter to his prison chamber, and advert briefly to the circumstances which attended his incarceration. He had beheld one of those beloved companions, who had toiled with him through so many dangers; who had been admitted with him into the utmost confidence of their affectionate Master; who had been, equally with himself, a witness of the scenes of the Redeemer's greatest earthly glory, and perhaps of his greatest earthly suffering; he had seen this friend and more than brother, cut off by the ruthless order of a ferocious tyrant, and compelled by his unprincipled mandate to drink that cup of which he had before declared his willingness to partake.*

* Matthew xx, 22.

Herod, we are told, finding that the death of James gratified the relentless temper of the Jews, "proceeded further to take Peter also. And when he had apprehended him, he put him in prison, and delivered him to four quaternions of soldiers to keep him; intending after Easter to bring him forth to the people." Of the motive of this seizure there can be no doubt. The crown of martyrdom, which had so lately been bound around the brows of James would, but for God's interposition, have soon encircled those of Peter also.

The feast of the Passover drew to a close; the day was at hand on which the imprisoned and seemingly forsaken disciple, was destined to be brought forth as a public spectacle, to feast the malice and vengeance of his countrymen by a painful death. Here must surely be a lesson to the Christian sufferer. The days of persecution we trust are ended; but it must cheer and enliven the soul of the faithful believer now, to see how the spirit of holiness can give strength and support even in the extremity of peril and distress. For our consolation and instruction, the gloom of that fearful dungeon is dispelled by a beam of God's own light, and we are enabled to penetrate the secrets of that dismal prison house. Let us enter for one moment, and contemplate in imagination the scene which is passing there. You

might expect, at least, that the intended victim would spend the hours of an existence, so soon, in all human probability, to be brought to a close, in wakeful meditation. You might expect especially that he, who had not long since, through the very fear of consequences, been guilty of an act of base ingratitude, and denied his kind and gracious Master, would now, when death in a frightful guise appeared before him, shrink from the tyrant's grasp, and struggle hard for the life he once seemed so much to love. Enter the cell of his confinement. How fares the sufferer? Hear you any groans of anguish, any denial of the offence with which he was charged, any repining at the hard fate to which he deemed himsef destined? He sleeps, my brethren. The chainsthe soldiers who watch by his side-have no power to disturb the tranquillity of his slumbers. He sleeps, though the scaffold is preparing, and malice is awake in anticipation of the coming festival. And what wondrous power was that which, in an hour like this, could thus tranquillize the spirits of the captive, and shed upon him the blessings of a calm and unruffled rest, when pain, and ignominy, and death, hovered around him? It was the Comforter whom the Saviour promised, that Spirit of truth and holiness, which thus soothed him in his day of anguish, and sent

an angel too, to save him from the fate by which he was threatened.

woes.

My brethren, do you desire to be so consoled and so supported, when the day of your sorrow and tribulation comes? You may not indeed, I trust you will not, like St. Peter, be ever found with the chains of persecution bound around you, and the rack and the stake prepared for your miseries. But you may, most probably you will, be exposed to many trials and adversities, to the loss of worldly comforts, the affliction of worldly What living soul amongst you has never known the hour, when his spirit has been bowed down by a grief, which no mortal comforter could alleviate or dispel. Some there are, I doubt not, before me now, who bear with them a weight of sorrows, which no fleshly arm can lighten or reThe world, which may perchance in the day of thoughtless prosperity, share our joys and tempt us on to fresh delights, will fail us assuredly, when the tempest of affliction howls around our dwelling. The hand of charity and compassion, may, indeed, and often does, pour a balm upon those sorrows, which the stern hand of poverty scatters around her path. But there are some woes so deep, so poignant, that no human sympathy can soothe them. There are sorrows which the world sees not, but which do, if un

move.