THE

BAPTIST MAGAZINE.

JANUARY, 1881.

Editor's Address.

AVING accepted the Editorship of this Magazine, its readers will naturally expect me to open the first number of the New Series with a few words expressive of the solicitudes and hopes with which I enter upon my work. Whatever may have been the misgivings which I felt when the post was offered to me, they are too late now, and must be resolutely dismissed from my mind. I can already perceive that neither the responsibility nor the toil will be light. Editorial occupations are not altogether new to me; but, in the present instance, they have assumed a form with which I have not heretofore been practically acquainted. I hope to be able to adapt myself to their somewhat changed requirements without much difficulty. I am anxious to succeed, and shall neglect no possible effort to do so. May I not hope that the members and friends of our denomination will energetically assist me? I will venture respectfully and implicitly to rely upon them. If they will rally round the good old periodical which bears their name it will rise, by God's blessing, to a position of influence and of usefulness to which it has always been entitled, but which it has not always enjoyed.

Since the announcement of a change in the Editorship was made I have received many letters of congratulation, good wishes, and pro

mises of effort to increase the sale. To the friends who have thus written I tender my cordial thanks. Not a few correspondents have favoured me with very frank suggestions as to what, in their view, would be calculated to make the Magazine more popular. I shall do my best to profit by their kindly wisdom. I do not despise popularity. If I did, some surly critic might say, "You are like the fox that thought the grapes were sour when he found that they were beyond his reach." Popularity cannot be too earnestly coveted or too perseveringly sought when it is regarded exclusively as a medium of usefulness. It may, however, be purchased at too costly a price. An inordinate fondness for what is called "light reading" is much too prevalent in our time, even amongst the members of our Christian congregations. This is a natural concomitant of the fastness of the age. With the mass anything that is slow, however sound, is felt to be uninteresting. The literature that is not "racy," and that has not a large infusion of the adventurous and sensational, commands but scant attention. If to this disadvantage there be added a second-namely, that it emanates from, and is representative of, some distinct religious community-it is only too likely to eke out an existence but little better than that of prolonged starvation. What is to be done? It is useless to fight against an omnipotent tendency. Perhaps, however, it is not impossible to blend the solid and the smart together. I think I know a few writers who have displayed this happy and enviable knack, and I am not without hope that some of them will kindly answer to my call. One wellknown friend appreciates the difficulty of the position. He says: "If the BAPTIST MAGAZINE is to rival the Sunday at Home, the Leisure Hour, the Quiver, &c., it has, at the same time, to take care not to lose its old place. Herein is the problem, which I sincerely hope you may be able to solve." I will do my best. We have writers among us who can both fascinate and instruct. Let me beg them to come to the help of a periodical which has faithfully served the interests of our holy religion, and which has been a trustworthy exponent of the principles of our beloved denomination for seventytwo years. It is old, but it need not be decrepid. Why should it not renew its youth, and that, too, in all needful and legitimate sym

pathy with the altered tastes of to-day? My own convictions will not allow me to go to any false extreme of change, and my impression is that such change as may be expedient should be gradual rather than sudden; but I do crave for the Magazine such a popularity as may be compatible with purity of taste, soundness of principle, devoutness of feeling, and loftiness of aim. I invite contributions from gentlemen and ladies on all hands who have the literary gift combined with hearts that are true to the Saviour, and I ask our friends to put forth their best endeavours to multiply the subscribing readers of the pages which I hope to supply for their pleasure and edification.

Oxford.

J. P. BARNETT.

Life in Earnest.

OW much of a man's life in this world is available for useful exertion? His years are threescore and ten. Ordinarily, the first fifteen are lost in the thoughtlessness of childhood; and not unfrequently the last ten are lost in the venerable repose of age. Lost, we say. Let not too severe a meaning be put into the word. The earlier years of life have their proper relation to the succeeding ones. The play of childhood is necessary to the development of the man, and the rudimentary, intellectual, and moral education appropriated to the same period is an essential process of preparation for what has to be accomplished afterwards. So the later years of life, during which its more active forces gradually wane, need not on that account be unproductive. The serenity of patience, the solidity of faith, the brightness of hope, the breadth, depth, and transparency of experience, and the admonitory power supplied by vivid and varied reminiscences, may combine to invest the elderly and the aged with salutary influence in the circles in which they move. But we are adverting now to that portion of human life which can, under favourable circumstances, be devoted to strenuous and useful endeavour to the work which shall tell on destiny, and on the condition and experience of mankind. That portion comprises, at the best, only some five and

forty years. What can be done in that short time? A city cannot be built; a new idea can hardly be planted in the soil of human thought. A flower garden may be brought to perfection; a wife may be loved, and a family reared; but a great error cannot be uprooted— a great reform can seldom be accomplished—a great mission cannot be undertaken and advanced to its completion. Forty-five years—the utmost period of active service which any man can be justified in considering his own-is, as a rule, so insufficient for any really great enterprise that, on reflection, the soul is strongly tempted to say, "Let me not begin, seeing that I shall not have time to finish."

Fortunately, it is only the weaker, the more timid, or the more indolent who reason thus. The sages tell us that the brevity of life should stimulate to industry instead of discouraging it, and in the consciousness of every one of us there is a ratification of that principle. No wise man argues that, because he cannot do everything which an enlightened and noble ambition would prompt him to do, therefore he will not try to do anything. Ought the thing to be done? If so, then, by the limitedness of my opportunity, let me set about it at once, and never rest till it is accomplished. The plea "I have not time enough," is the subterfuge of laziness, not the noble melancholy of discouraged aspirations.

At any rate, so much as this is certain--that every man has time enough to do all that he is in duty bound to do. If our duty has not been done, we have either wasted time in idleness or have devoted it to undertakings which had no claim upon us.

And verily, the amount of solid and useful work which can be done in a few years of this short life is enough to astonish us when we rightly realise it. The old man, sinking into the grave, and looking back upon his career, may well be thankful if he can see that a single year has been well spent. For he may be sure that, in that one year, by the grace of God, he has achieved imperishable triumphis, not only of godliness for himself, but also of godly power upon others; that he has set in motion wholesome influences that shall act and augment for ever.

We greatly err if-as many shallow thinkers and observers dowe regard only the grander embodiments of success as the tests of a man's usefulness in this world. People say that Sir Christopher Wren was great because he built St. Paul's Cathedral; that Shakespeare was great because he wrote so many immortal plays, and

because his dramatic genius was at once more profound and more versatile than that of any other poet known to literature; that John Knox was great because he smashed the Papacy in Scotland. Well, if greatness-itself tested by such stupendous achievements as these -is to be the test of a worthy and useful life, nine hundred and ninety-nine of every thousand of us have but a very slender chance! Greatness is indeed proved by the definite, superb, and abiding results of power. You judge of a poet, not by his character, but by his poems; of an artist, not by his moral fidelity, but by the productions of his hand. You ask of a general, "What victories did he win?" of a lawyer, "What robes did he wear?" of an architect, "What temples did he design?" of an author, "What books did he write?" But of the man you ask different and far more radical questions. Whom did he love? When did he weep? On what did he smile? How did he treat his neighbours? Was he honest? Did he often pray? Did he live

"As ever in the great Taskmaster's eye?"

This love, these tears, these smiles, this fraternal, neighbourly courtesy, this honesty, these prayers, this high-toned, sober piety— what will you say of them? That they stand for nothing? That they are useless? That, because they are insufficient to make the world stare with astonishment and shout with admiration, they are not worth cultivating? In reality, they are all things of power, elements of nobleness, and titles to reward, to peace, and to a beautiful though not blazing renown. We most truly judge of a man, not by the ostentatious monuments of his life, but by its gentle, hidden, silent influence. Do you think that a human soul will ever get into heaven by the credit of a great poem or of a magnificent picture? Nay, verily. By the sweetness, the sincerity, the moral earnestness, the God-fearing, Christ-trusting, and Christ-loving spirit wrought within him by Divine grace, a man gets into heaven. By these things, also, he gets into our hearts. We love him, and trust ourselves to him, because of his purity, his unselfishness, his spiritual sorrows, struggles, and solemn gladnesses-that which has been woven into his heart, character, and life by steady fellowship with Him "who did no sin," who was "meek and lowly," who "came to seek and to save that which was lost," and who could truthfully say of Himself: "My meat is to do the will of Him that sent Me, and to finish His work."