by every member of the race: the mysteries of penalty included in this one death infinitely transcend them all.'*

But the sufferings of Christ were not an exact equivalent for those of the sinner, for then He must have suffered the pains of hell, which He certainly did not even for a moment. • What we,

if unredeemed, must have suffered for ever was suffered by Christ temporally, and all that we in various degrees and ways deserved to suffer, was suffered by Christ in His course from the manger to the cross, and although suffered in manifold ways, yet always in a mode conformable to human life and history.' † There was, however, one grand exception-He did not suffer the pangs of a guilty conscience, and, as they doubtless are the main ingredient in the sufferings of the lost, those sufferings He did not endure.

For, in fact, He was not forsaken after all. This is evident from the very expression He employed, My God; My God,' for no one is forsaken of God who can truly call God his God. In the psalm to which reference has been made Jesus said, for they also were His words, 'Be not far from me, for trouble is near; for there is none to help ;'-Ps. xxii. 11-and His own words addressed to His disciples prior to His sufferings implied that God would help Him when those sufferings came. 'Behold the hour cometh, yea, is now come, that ye shall be scattered, every man to his own, and shall leave me alone; and yet I am not alone because the Father is with me.-John xvi. 32. O no! He was not alone; He was not forsaken. It might seem as if He were during the three hours' darkness, and specially as He uttered this piercing cry; but all the while the Father was with Him, was sympathizing in His sufferings, and was watching over Him in the dreadful conflict. God forsakes none who forsake not Him, and Jesus said in Gethsemane, Father, Thy will be done,' retaining to the last the same spirit of submission, and now taking the cup put into His hands and drinking it to the dregs. The first Adam forsook God before God forsook him; the second Adam never forsook God, and therefore could not be forsaken by Him. In the midst of the dense darkness by which He was enwrapt there was, therefore, a gleam of light; in the very moment He uttered this mysterious cry there was an inward consciousness that God was near. it not been so He must have failed to accomplish the great purpose of His mission. His humanity must have sunk beneath the weight imposed on it. Only when God was near Him could He have offered Himself as the sacrifice for sin.

Had

Calvary was doubtless the scene of a great conflict. The powers of darkness were near, so that the sufferer might well say, 'Many The Argument of the Epistle to the Hebrews, by George Steward, p. 81. Clark: Edinburgh.

† Delitzsch, p. 437.

bulls have compassed me; strong bulls of Bashan have beset me round. They raged with almost unbridled fury, they instigated the bystanders to mock and to deride, and they thought, perhaps, that now their victory was sure. But no! That sufferer says, My God; and theirs is not the victory, but His. In that very word there is an indication that he will conquer, and that the moment of his triumph is at hand.

This was further indicated by the passing away of the darkness. It passed away not before the utterance of the cry, but just as it was uttered, so that simultaneously with it the light burst forth in brightest radiance, and poured its beams upon the sufferer's head. In a moment, whilst the words' Why has Thou forsaken me ?? were upon his lips, the three hours' gloom was scattered, the sun shone out again in all his splendour, and Calvary was encircled with a blaze of light. When Jesus was baptized by John in the Jordan, the heavens were opened to him, and a voice from heaven said, "This is my beloved Son in whom I am well pleased. (Matt iii. 16.) When he was transfigured on the Mount, a bright cloud overshadowed him and the three disciples, and out of it came a voice, saying, 'This is my beloved Son.' And now, again, though no audible voice is heard, there is the presence of the Divine Glory, which says in effect, I have not forsaken Thee; thou art my beloved Son in whom I am well pleased.' (Matt. xvii. 5.)

6

'He calleth for Elias,' said some who stood by. Others said, 'Let us see whether Elias will come to save him.' It is doubtful whether these words were spoken in mockery or in earnest. If in earnest, we may suppose that the truth was now flashing on the people's minds, that he was, indeed, the Messiah, and that Elijah would appear in a chariot of fire, vindicating his cause. But the probability is that they were spoken in mockery, and that the mysterious cry was thus wickedly perverted by men who had no feeling left. Relieved by the passing away of the darkness, of their momentary fear, the wretched Romans, or the still more wretched Jews, returned to their ribaldry, and charged our Lord with calling upon a mere man for help. But he heeded not their words, for all, or nearly all, was now over, and far from wishing to come down from the cross he chose to die upon it, knowing that his death would give life to a guilty world.

The latter portion of the twenty-second Psalm is indicative of the same fact. From the twenty-second verse it is like a song of triumph, and if the former part of it expressed the Messiah's sorrow, this expresses the Messiah's joy: 'I will declare thy name unto my brethren: in the midst of the congregation will I praise thee. Ye that fear the Lord, praise him; all ye, the seed of Jacob, glorify him; and fear him, all ye seed of Israel. For he hath not

*Ps. xxii. 12.

despised the affliction of the afflicted, neither hath he hid his face from them; but when he cried unto him, he heard.' What was this language but the prelude to the cry, It is finished?' and what was it but a proof that he was not forsaken, but heard even in the moment of his deep distress? That the words of the psalm were actually uttered on the cross I do not affirm, but that the sentiment was felt, and that Jesus, ere he died, contemplated the glorious result of his passion as described in that part of the psalm there can be little doubt. The Redeemer did not, I repeat, die under a cloud. There was light at evening time. His why has thou forsaken me?' was followed by a reply so rich and full, that though the body still suffered, the soul was filled with joy, and, as in the case of many of His followers, who in this, as in other respects, are made like unto their Lord, the last conflict was over before death ensued, and the valley of the shadow of death was radiant with the light of heaven.

There is rich consolation for the Christian here, for if Jesus was not forsaken when bearing our sins in his own body on the tree, neither shall the believer be forsaken in any hour of trial or in any season of distress. For a small moment,' says God to Zion, 'have I forsaken thee, but with great mercies will I gather thee. In a little wrath I hid my face from thee for a moment, but with everlasting kindness will I have mercy on thee." And what he says to Zion, he says to every believer within her courts. Periods there are in the life of many a Christian when the powers of hell affright him, and in the bitter agony of his soul he is ready to conclude that God hath forgotten to be gracious, and hath in anger shut up his bowels of compassion from him; yet no sooner does he present the prayer of faith than the clouds disperse, and he says with exulting joy, 'Not forsaken! I am still the Lord's.' The Lord loveth judgment,' said David, and forsaketh not his saints.' 'Persecuted,' said St. Paul, but not forsaken : cast down, but not destroyed.' This is the consolation of every follower of our Lord, and the Christ of Calvary having suffered such things can sympathise with him in all his sufferings.

*Isai. liv. 7-8.

ART. VI.-OLIVER GOLDSMITH AND HIS WRITINGS.

the 10th of November, 1728, in a small and almost inacces

Pallismore, county Longford, Ireland, Oliver Goldsmith first saw the light of day. He sprang from an old clerical family that had long excelled in all the kindly graces of the Christian character

but was much lacking in the wisdom of the world. His father, the reverend Charles Goldsmith, married young; and true to the instinct of his race, consulted in his marriage more the passion of his heart than the maxims of the wise. His wife, Anne Jones, brought him, in the shape of fortune, her own dear self alone, and as he had no private means, and did not secure a 'living' for twelve long years after the honeymoon, his prospect was not very cheering. He farmed a little, acted as half-pay curate for his wife's uncle, and in various other ways eked out an existence. Oliver, who was the fifth child, and second son, was born in these hard times. But two years after his birth, fortune came to the aid of the starving curate, and removed him and his growing family to the parish of Lissoy, in the county of Kilkenny, where, with two hundred pounds a year and seventy acres of land, he became wealthy and proud.

After being initiated into the mystery of the alphabet by the cunning of Elizabeth Delap, Oliver was transferred, at the age of six, to Thomas Byrne, the village schoolmaster. This worthy had been a soldier, and in defence of his country had burned powder under Marlborough, in Spain. From the nature of his previous calling it may be assumed that his qualifications for teaching the 'humanities' were not very great; nevertheless, he contributed considerably to the development and direction of Oliver's genius. In his own person he illustrated history. He

'Shoulder'd his crutch, and show'd how
Fields were won.'

He could tell grand tales of his military exploits and hairbreadth escapes, and like every true son of the green sod, he had an inexhaustible fund of stories about fairies and witches, and whiteboys and bogmen, and all kinds of wild and imaginary creatures, whose adventures and capers excited the fancy of his auditors, and made them feel more at home in the unreal world of fancy than in the humdrum life of Lissoy. Oliver's friends blamed Byrne for unsettling his mind, but to that unsettlement we are indebted for some of his best works. Unfortunately at this time Oliver was severely attacked by confluent small-pox, which left his face seamed and scarred for life, and settled for ever his small claims to good looks. On recovery he was sent to a higher class of schools to fit him for the University. It was when returning to one of these that he passed through the droll adventure he immortalised in one of his comedies. Mounted on a borrowed horse, with a guinea in his pocket, he left home for Edgeworthstown. Once fairly clear of Lissoy, his head was turned. Never before were his circumstances equal to his desires. He strode along in the highest glee, now galloping in the style of the immortal Gilpin, now capering and prancing, imagining himself with Byrne

in Spain, now sauntering and gloating over the immense riches in his pocket. At length night overtook him far enough from Edgeworthstown, and three miles from the main road. Meeting a countryman, he inquired for the best house in the next village, meaning an inn. The countryman directed him to what was really the best house, the mansion of Squire Featherstone. With a flourish of trumpets he rode up to the door, and bidding the groom attend to his nag, swaggered into the parlour, and cast himself down in a seat before the fire, and rang for supper. The Squire perceiving his mistake thought he would humour him. When supper was served, in the most provokingly condescending manner, he invited the landlord and his good lady and pretty daughter to join him. He called for wine, proposed toasts, talked large, laughed and swaggered. Never was a traveller more prodigal or a guest more condescending. His last flourish was as he went to bed, when he left strict orders that he must have hot cakes for breakfast in the morning, and hot enough they were in the morning when he discovered his great mistake.

In some measure he had already become familiar with the bitterness life had in store for him. His face, general appearance, awkwardness and shyness had exposed him to the jokes and sneers of the empty-headed and cruel-hearted. He resented the part assigned to him. He was conscious that he was superior to his appearance, but all who judged from appearance and are they not yet by far the largest number of mankind?--but laughed the more at the writhing and bleeding of his fine nature. Sometimes he was stung to the quick and turned upon his assailants with a power that silenced them; but far oftener he suffered in secret, and strove to appear careless and light-hearted. He was the oddest boy at school,-sometimes utterly indolent, sometimes extraordinarily diligent; sometimes grave and shy, and would shrink away from the other boys; sometimes the most rollicking, rattling madcap in the whole school; sometimes petulant and whimsical, always unstable and uneven, but ever affectionate and kind: he was, as in after life, tenderly endeared to those that knew him, but a great perplexity nevertheless.

Born to be frustrated in all his intents, when the time came for him to go to college his father was short of money. His brother Henry had a wealthy pupil, who fell in love with, and privately married, his sister Catherine. His father, jealous that it should be said he had taken advantage of the young man to secure his daughter a good position, impoverished the family to provide her a dowry. The first to suffer was Oliver. He could not go to college as Henry had gone; if he went he would have to go as a sizar, that is, a poor scholar,-and sooner than submit to that, he would rather go to trade as was originally designed. It is a

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