that every sinner is a prodigal wandering from his Father's house. To him, therefore, that babe was a babe of God's "Breaking with laughter from the Lake Divine, He saw in it the lineaments of Christ. More than in heaven, the Saviour himself was about it in its infancy; it was not an angel, not sinless in nature or development, but a saved soul, whose smile was the smile of God, and who, with its own co-operation, could always grow in grace, and never need come into condemnation. It was no ingrafted creed, no running over the wall, in wildness of feeling and fancy, but a strict, logical, inevitable conclusion of his daily creed, preached by all his brethren, and found in all the catechisms and formulæ of his church. As he looked on the babe he could believingly exclaim, "O child! O new-born denizen Of Life's great city! On thy head Like a celestial benison." It was Christ whom he there saw shining in the greatness of His love. Every child was bathed in the blood of redemption. It was blood of its blood; it therefore deserved baptism, the outward sign of this inward state, and a place for ever in the Church which includes all His redeemed ones in its holy fold. The eucharistic services were as remarkable as the baptismal. He had a special word for every guest of his Lord's. "Here come my boys from between the guns," he exclaims, when a batch of boys in navy shirts kneel at the altar; and then flows forth a most affecting address to these especially tempted ones. Says Dr. Peirce, "No words can describe his manner at a sacramental occasion in his own Bethel. It was not so much what he said as himself, his whole bearing, his impassioned and incarnated sentiment. 'I have got something for you, children,' he once said, as he followed me with the cup: 'it is a present from Jesus, something which He has sent to remember Him by.' He held the cup under his outer coat, pressed to his heart, as if he would suddenly surprise them by bringing the precious gift out before their eyes; then he looked up and burst into tears as he pronounced His name. 'He sends it to you, children, and tells me to say to you, Drink of this in memory of me R. P. S., in "The Boston Transcript," describes his dramatie powers, tested to their uttermost by startling events. Two sailors had been arrested for murdering a captain. One had been acquitted, and one condemned. It was the Sunday after the trial, and the man that had been released was suffocation. among the audience. As usual, every spot was crowded to "Father Taylor was in his best mood. His heart was fuller than his Bethel. He prayed for the sailors as if his heart would go up with his petition, and tears flowed from his eyes like rain. "He commenced his sermon rather tamely, as it seemed, after such a prayer. But he warmed up gradually, as he went on describing the temptations and devilishness of sin, the deeds it prompted, the acts it compelled its victims to, till at last he took us all fairly to sea, and the dark rainy night came down upon the ship and waters. As the night wore on, the captain turned in, and the duty had crept down to their bunks. pace the deck. crew who were off The two on watch One of them draws and looks at his knife; he feels the edge with his finger; he looks toward the cabindoor, he goes toward it, he stands by it; he twirls the knife in his hand, again he looks at it, again he feels the edge; he puts his hand on the door, he listens; he opens the door just a crack, peeps in, sees the captain asleep; he is sleeping soundly; the door is opened wider, he steps in. "At this point of the description, the house was as still as the tomb, save here and there a deep breathing. The sailors were leaning forward with fixed and staring eyes and parted lips. Every muscle was in highest tension. "Father Taylor went on with his description, acting it as no dramatist could act, his face the perfect expression of the criminal's hate and deed. He looks at the door; he looks at his innocent sleeping victim; he clinches the knife tighter; he slips like a cat towards the berth, puts out his hand to feel where the heart is; he passes it along until he finds the exact place. He steps back with one foot; he lifts his hand which holds the knife. He strikes "There was an audible start through the whole house; and some of the sailors sprang to their feet, as if to stop the blow. He said but few words more. After the emotion had subsided, he asked the acquitted man to rise; and he closed the services with a fervent prayer for him." Rev. E. H. Sears describes, in "The Religious Monthly," a scene of this sort : "I first heard Father Taylor early in 1835, in the midst of his sailors at his Bethel in Boston. He was then in his full vigour, the house was crowded, and the pulpit stairs were occupied clear up to the preacher. His eloquence was marvellous ; his control over the audience seemed almost absolute. Tears and smiles chased each other over our faces like the rain and sunshine of an April day. Two characteristics gave tone and power to his marvellous eloquence. He had one of the most brilliant imaginations that ever sparkled and burned. His sermon was all poetry, though it came in bursts and jets of flame. It was like the dance of the aurora, changing all the while from silver flame to purple and back again. But the secret of his magnetic power was not here: it was in his overflowing sympathies, that leaped over all barriers, and had no regard for time or place. There was no wall of formality between him and his hearers any more than if he were talking to each one of us in a private room. He would single out a person in his audience, talk to him individually with the same freedom as if he met him in the street. Ah! my jolly tar,' turning to a sailor who happened at that moment to catch his eye, 'here you are in port again: God bless you! See to your helm, and you will reach a fairer port by and by. Hark! don't you hear the bells of heaven over the sea?'" In one of his prayers at Nahant he described our life as a tabernacle, through whose thin walls the lamp of a holy soul shines clearer and brighter as the walls themselves grow thinner; while death is but the stepping forth from such a tent into those glories which have no dimming veil between. To such sanctified natures it is 66 Only a step into the open air Out of a tent, already luminous With light that shines through its transparent walls." E CHAPTER VIII. OUT OF THE BETHEL. ATHER TAYLOR had a home as free and vitalized with character as that of his long-time neighbour, Dr. Beecher. The homeless lad, roaming the hungry seas, with hungry heart, found himself, though still a wanderer, in the possession of as happy a nest as falls to the lot of few. His wife, a counterpart and helpmeet of the rarest sort, offset his vehemence with her calin; his strength of daring with her strength of repose; his improvidence with her prudence; his fire with her coolness. Their children were endowed with the wit and independence of the parents; and the household was not a gathering of automata, but of spirits, self-poised, almost self-created. In this jocund group, the house-master dwelt supreme. Four girls and one boy survived, of six children, to grow to adult years. married and living. All are His daughter, Mrs. Judge Russell, gives these interesting incidents : "My earliest recollections are of reading aloud to father, |