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THE

LADIES'

REPOSITORY.

FOR JULY

1851.

"THE LOVE OF CHRIST CONSTRAINETH US."

"FOR the love of Christ constraineth us," said Paul, writing to the Christians at Corinth. There is a bold image in the Apostle's language which is thus rendered. His idea is, that the love of Christ, seen in his death and associated with the sublime results which are contemplated in his mediation, bears the soul away as the rush of the resistless torrent sweeps onward whatever lies in its course. This is a grand figure to show his enthusiasm, to tell the reader how he viewed the Redeemer, not with a cold speculating intellect, but with a heart alive to the present interest which Christ has in the subjects of his kingdom and the completeness of their redemption.

We need to contemplate this fervency and catch the spirit of this lofty feeling; for there is a disposition increasing around us to look upon Christ only in the light of a great teacher and a devoted philanthropist, who once lived on the earth, and is worthy, for his teachings and life, to be remembered and honored,-as other wise and self-sacrificing men. But this does by no means answer the requisitions of the New Testament. It overlooks the peculiar and purely spiritual relations which Christ sustains to our race, through that exaltation which has given him "the pre-eminence in all things." There is in the language of the New Testament respecting Jesus Christ, something of the tone of reverence and the profoundest homage of the heart which the true soul employs in treating of God. We cannot but see that when the Apostles speak of the ascended and exalted Lord, they do it with a deep feeling of awe, and we cannot shake off the conviction that they felt he was apart from common humanity, holding offices and dignities to which no other human being ever yet attained. It is not only of the Teacher, the Philanthropist, that they speak; but they dwell with the highest satisfaction on his Mediatorial character. It is this lofty view of his relations to VOL. XX.

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our race which alone can beget the spirit which is essential to acceptable obedience; and how can we have this but by a reverent apprehension of his mediatorial relation to humanity, as the "Mediator between God and Man,"-neither God, nor Man, but holding a relative position to both for a specific and a glorious end. Only to those who apprehend this, can the full force of the Apostle's language come, when he speaks of the love of Christ bearing the soul away in ecstacy, as by irresistible might.

Many claiming the name of Christians, have no sympathy with this. Their whole Gospel is, "Obey the Christian precepts and live." They will reason on the good policy of observing these requisitions, but they overlook an earnest reference to the grand motive to do what it is politic to do, what our nature demands of us to do, what the history of the world recommends, and what is absolutely essential in order to satisfy the promptings of the moral sense or conscience. There is something more than all this when love appeals to love,-when a personal interest in us on the part of Jesus is recognized. We need to see the love of Christ bold, distinct, appealing to every grateful affection, and laying us under obligations of the most important character. Only think of that love,-its peculiarities. Consider who they were by whom he was surrounded when on earth,-how he poured out sympathy on them, but received little or nothing in return. Consider how immeasurably lifted above their narrow minds was his mind, they musing on the restoration of the outward glory of the kingdom of Israel, while his thought was compassing the entire world in its appointed relations. Consider how he never yielded, never faltered, though mountain high were the difficulties, enough to crush out all faith in man. Consider that love speaking from the throne beside the Father, unchanged by the exaltation which was given him, so that we can use the Apostle's words and speak of Jesus as "the same yesterday, to-day, and forever."

I am not satisfied with that portraiture of

Christ which gives us only what of love was exhibited on earth,-that never mounts the height of faith and owns his operations now, his everlasting mediation. I want the Christ who ascended from Olivet to show forth his love through the ages, to operate on human souls through those avenues which the God of our being prepared in the mysterious make of the human mind. I want a divine meaning given to those words, those titles,-Mediator, Intercessor, Advocate, Shepherd and Bishop of souls. I want to feel that however much God has made other beings to me, whatever may be the depth of their love, their willingness and ability to promote my highest good,-I want to feel that Christ is more than they all,-yes, that it is not too much for him to demand that I forsake all, if that be necessary in order to follow him. As in vision I see him standing on Olivet,--his shadow for the last time resting on the earth, his words of parting dropping from his lips,- -as I hear him say,-"All power is given unto me in heaven and in earth," I want to feel the force of those words, and to separate Jesus in my thoughts from all human beings, and see him clothed with a majesty none other can wear.

The love of Christ constraineth us, because we see in his death a relation to the ultimate blessedness of our race, and behold the affecting union of his power with every agency now in operation for the redemption of man. He holds the power that was given him,-the delegated sovereignty of the universe; and as he once went over the land of Judea, healing and blessing the sick, the blind, the crippled, and the dumb, by the divinity of all pitying grace,-so now, in the spiritual relations which he holds to man, he is abroad wherever the battle between truth and error, sin and evil, is to be fought; and the soul richly illumined can apply to itself the encouragement of the Apostle's words,— "Let us lay aside every weight, and the sin which doth so easily beset us, and let us run with patience the race that is set before us, looking unto Jesus, the author and finisher of our faith." Here, his spiritual presence is recognized. He is deemed as much present as the judge who presided at the ancient races was in view of the competitors, and stimulated them to the utmost exertion by the laurel wreath which he held out to their sight. And is not this the idea constantly expressed by the Apostles,-did they not continually speak of Jesus as holding sublimer relations to them in the invisible world

than he ever held on earth? And was not the mighty love that constrained them, that bare them away by its force, a love that received its grandest charm from the thought of its then present activity? the love of one enthroned in glory, yet mindful of the poor wanderers of earth.

Let us consider this thought farther by the aid of an illustration drawn from the common conversations respecting the beloved who have departed to the world of the immortals. I remember a time when the mourning group had returned to the desolated home whence the chief light and joy had been taken, and the solemn stillness was broken by the sister of the buried one asking me, If I believed that the departed saw us and were conscious of our circumstances of sorrow and joy? The full, round eyes of the widow, in which tears were swimming, were fixed upon me, and I saw that others desired the conviction which my own soul in grief had labored to obtain. I could not answer the question directly, and long did we converse on the subject, dwelling on the blessedness which true love must feel if convinced that the departed still had an interest in this world, still cared for us and loved us. I said that there was nothing in the Bible against the idea, and much that seemed to sustain it; that there could be no harm in entertaining the happy thought; and that it was bliss unutterable sometimes to think that the words of love we speak are heard and responded to in thought and feeling by them. Now, let us suppose the speculation true,—and it may be true,—suppose that the dear ones who once made our homes happy are able to witness our condition here,-that they can hover over us, and are mindful of our tears and lamentations; would it not increase our love and add to our motives to cherish their memories, could we know that they regard us with an ever growing sympathy, that their thoughts fly earth-ward, and compass our lying down and our rising up? Such a result could not fail of being produced. This idea would be a constraining force to bind us to them more strongly than ever, and we should delight to muse on the thoughts that might perhaps be theirs towards us; and if we could not look upon the clear stars of heaven and think an unholy thought, much more impossible would it be to entertain an impure desire while we mused upon the dear departed walking in the light of immortality, too glorious for our weak eyes to bear. But the certainty of this matter God has wisely hidden, that one great thought might possess our minds and pre

pare us to profit by all others designed for our comfort. That great thought is, The present love of Christ, the sympathetic interest which he has in our moral condition, the knowledge he of what we are and need. It was this possesses great thought that lifted up the soul of the martyr Stephen, as he expired amid the shower of stones, expressing the forgiving spirit of his Master, and crying, "Lord Jesus, receive my spirit." It was felt by Paul when under the name of Saul he was arrested on his way to Damascus, and he sent up his voice in the bewilderment of the surprise which possessed him, "Who art thou, Lord?" And lo! the answer came, "I am Jesus whom thou persecutest." He had heard Stephen's prayer, he had seen the glory of his face when he expired with the beauty of an angel on his countenance,—and he had wrestled with the thoughts that then were kindled in his soul, and now the interest which that Being had in him against whom he so violently fought, melted his soul at once, and from that hour the love of Christ had borne him on with a resistless might. And so with Peter, who so felt that love that when martyrdom came to him, he had only one request, - he asked to die with his head to the earth, deeming it too great an honor to expire as his Master had died. And so has it been with thousands, true and faithful to the despised religion. The glory of their fidelity sprung not from looking back into history for the Redeemer, but in uniting history with the present and the hopes of the future, applying the beautiful thought of the Psalmist where he treats of the Divine Omniscience, to the active, sympathetic, present love of Jesus,-"Thou hast beset me behind, and before, and hast laid thine hand upon me."

This is what we want to lead us to God, to purity, to happiness. We want a prevailing conviction of the besetting love of Jesus, -a conviction that shall make us burst the cold bands of mere rationalism, and rise above the region of intellectualism, till we find the atmosphere of spiritual and undying love. It is not the great thoughts, the indomitable will, the moral grandeur of the Savior, that is to do the work for the soul in imparting the spirit of an ever improving life. No; we must respond to his personal love; we must see that he is not a mere king to preside over the interests of his subjects for the general good, but a Savior for individual souls, for each,-for you, for me. We must not be content with saying, "Jesus died for all," and expatiate on the grandeur of such a

death; but we must say, "Jesus died for me!" and in the very depths of our being feel how much there is in that holy truth.

"For me, for me, my Savior died,
For me the Lord was crucified."

In the light of this subject, we see the pertinency of the question, "Have you a personal interest in Christ?" No matter how much that question has been abused,-now matter how it has been made a mere form, it is a question that should be pondered most seriously, in the light of God's presence, and with a longing for more of the constraining love of Christ. Providence, R. I.

HENRY BACON.

SING TO ME, MAY!

WITH noiseless tread the twilight comes,
Its floating shadows round us weep,
And dreaming sweet dreams every bud
Lies in its folded leaves asleep.
This is the hour which best befits

The echo of bewitching song,
While o'er the green, with glancing feet,
The dim night spirits glide along.

Sing to me, May!

The night is holy beaming stars

Are coming silently and still, The brightness that the sunset leaves Is fading now behind the hill. There is the star we've watched so oft, Half superstitious, half in jest, As in its path of deep, dark blue, It moved, uncloud, to the West.

Sing to me, May!

Another eve, 'neath summer skies,
I watched the shadows glide along,
And listened to an earnest voice
Which thrilled my heart, but not with song.
The star we watched-I see it not !

The voice I heard-where breathes it now?
Those midnight eyes-where rests the glance?
Who may that heart's revealings know?
Sing to me, May!

If I, while listening to thy song,

One memory of the past regain, If one high thought is waked to-night, Then, love, thou'lt not have sung in vain. Aye, sing thus sitting at my feet! The glorious stars above shall hear,

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GLOUCESTER, May 1, 1851.

You have desired me once more to write you a letter from my sea-side home, and to-day I sit down, while an easterly storm is making outdoor life intolerable, to comply. I should hardly dare assure yourself or your good readers, of entertainment from these scribblings of mine;

for the "wear and tear" of this ministerial existence, is not the most favorable for the cultivation of the magazine graces. What with coaxing and dragging reluctant sermons out of an over-worked brain, with visits, ceremonies complimentary and consolatory, with weddings and funerals, and parish parties and death-beds jostling each other through the busy week, I really feel the same stiffness of the mental joints when I come into the "walks" of polite literature which an old soldier, whose face carries the private marks of a dozen battle-fields, and whose limbs have taken an obstinate "stand" in contempt of sprains, fractures, and rheumatisms, may feel when asked to spend an evening upon the floor of the ball-room. But, as that same old veteran, out of pure kindliness of heart, may consent to stamp and canter among bright eyes and satin shoes,-even may swing about his stiff knee occasionally to give a belle of eighteen a chance for what she does not get every day—a hearty laugh, so will I, my friend, at your request, come out of my parish and talk an hour of those dear youthful delights of literature and life, which even a "parson" never wholly outgrows. Only if I pace somewhat formally through your flower-garden, remember "'tis not my trade."

What shall I write to you? Of course, the readers of the "Repository" are not supposed to be plagued by the great necessity of the nineteenth century-the want of "news"; if they are, we may recommend to them, as a useful mental discipline, a voyage of discovery in search of a penny paper that reports it truly-a perilous sort of journeying upon which neither you or I are disposed to set out to-day. But happily for some of us, there are a great many

things in the universe besides "news"; and one of these is the coming of Spring just now. For, in the very teeth of this easterly storm, I repeat it, Spring is here. The blades of grass are sprouting along the road-sides, the water courses make a green path through the brown pastures, the horse-chestnut buds are milk-white, the arbutus cautiously unfolds its leaves in the warm nooks of the wood, and yesterday I saw a hardy young maple that had "set up for itself" in a dress of crimson blossoms,-poor tree, like a boy of sixteen trying to be a man before his time, it is now shivering under this ague-breeding storm. But though the land is not easy to be coaxed out of the reserve of Winter, the sea and sky are more prodigal of their favors, and smile upon us already with looks prophetic of June. The harbor of our "old sea-port town" is white with the sails of fishermen, and on every bright day the blue waves are sure to get up a jubilee on their own account. All about the wharves and storehouses, and out into the country, is heard the spring bustle of reviving labor. People walk with their coats unbuttoned, and laugh in your face at the slightest provocation. Young ladies and young men become uneasy, and saucy to their grand-fathers and maiden aunts. The lovers parade the streets, as if Spring were only created to afford an opportunity for the display of their insolence, in daring to sentimentalize in the very face of a law and order loving community. And ministers-ah, they have their uneasinesses, their longings to break out of the parish harness, their dreams of riding in express trains, and visiting world's fairs, and strolling among the woods of their old native town,-which longings and uneasinesses they are fortunate indeed to be able to gratify,—and wanting in such indulgence, fortunate, can they, like myself at this moment, live over old spring joys in reproducing them on paper for the eyes of a friend.

I wonder what it is that connects the changes of the seasons with our literary tastes so mysteriously? Why is it that now I can read only the books I do, while a hundred tempting volumes on my bookshelves have lost their hold upon me? Every Spring I have a new desire to talk with Shakspeare. I cannot enjoy him in Summer, and the slow decay of Autumn, when Nature like a hero who has trod the stage with more than mortal energy, calmly gathers in her trophies and prepares for the fifth act of the year, needs no additional reminder of the eternal struggle between will and destiny. Then the

Winter has its books-the philosophers, the theologians, and the long-breathed historians must have their due. But when, as now the year comes in like a great living creature, I find no book which responds to her power like that of the sovereign poet, and the throng of gorgeous, solemn, wild, and jocund life that sweeps across his page, fitly answers to the bounding wave, the April shower, the changing forest, and the irresistible might of nature's will re-asserting its

power.

It was from some instinct of this kind that a few days ago I opened my Shakspeare upon the plan of "measure for measure," and read, only caring to group its minor characters, that I might gain a new view of its Isabella. And she told me things about herself of which I am sure I shall not gossip here, for I seemed to know by what paths she had come up to that mount where she now stands the transfigured image of a chaste womanhood. I am not about to write an analysis of her nature, but one or two things I will say, which the world forgets as often as they are told. One of the noblest lessons of her life is the power that resides in perfect purity. Milton, in his Lady in Comus, has given a very lofty illustration of this, and in those oft quoted lines "so dear to heaven is saintly chastity," has told us of the strength of virtue. But only Shakspeare has pictured before the world the fullness of energy that like a guard of" thousand liveried angels" waits upon the soul that is free from sin. So great is purity in man or woman, that it is not only able to repel all assaults upon itself, but can in turn become the assailant, and pluck down its proud insulter from the highest place of earthly dominion. When once fairly arrayed against sin, however entrenched in walls of man's building, it must triumph. It matters not whether its representative be a martyr Apostle, an exiled patriot, a despised poet, or an outraged girl;—it is all the same, and sooner or later the Almighty must vindicate himself through the humblest instrument he may choose to live or die for his truth.

There is always united with real purity of character a clearness of spiritual vision which detects the approach of sin afar off, and gives warning to all the powers to be in readiness to repel the invasion. It not only measures the strength but also the weakness of the adversary. It sees that although sustained by a thousand artificial and material allies, impurity is in itself impotence, and will fall at one blow direct

ed at the right spot. A bad man has always one vulnerable point, and he that discovers this, can overthrow him with only a word. But another bad man cannot discover this. His own sin clouds his vision; only a pure soul gives that clearness of the eye which looks through and through his wicked heart, and knows at a glance where to aim its blow of defence. This being once known, the corrupt spirit is entirely at the mercy of that which is pure. Conscious of its innate superiority, and strong in its entire goodness, it can foil and ward off every blow, and when the time comes for retribution, concentrate its celestial force and drive it upon the weakest point of its adversary with a certainty of victory.

But only a pure soul can do this, as I have said. A spirit half fallen with evil thoughts indulged within, is at the mercy of one wholly given over to the service of Satan. It does not understand the nature of its enemy's purpose till too late for resistance. Under cover of its beclouded vision, the evil one has crept even into the sacred enclosures of its individuality and established himself. Then confusion and fear complete the work, and between them the poor soul goes over to sin. So it is that evil prevails in the world, much of the true virtue among men, is only half virtue, an external covering of propriety, education, or conformity to arbitrary rules of conduct. It is moral and not spiritual, presenting the appearance of reality while away in some corner of the heart a sweet thought of transgression is petted and nursed from its puny infancy up to insolent manhood. Few of us know what an enemy we may carry about in our own bosoms, ready at any unguarded moment to upset our boasted holiness. When the devil comes and outside our castle-walls summons us to surrender, he too often hears a response from a devil within, and then he may calculate with impunity upon the strength of our defences, and the chances of treason inside the camp.

All this was present to the eye of the great dramatist. He has given us in his play, a representative of almost every form of individual impurity. Yet Isabella moves pure, and awkward among this rabble, because she has nothing answering to their sin in her own breast. And being thus, she is stronger than all of them --stronger than the highest power of the gov ernment. She foils the blows aimed at her, as if she played with bulrushes instead of sharp swords, and when her hour appears, by one word

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