It seems to imply not only the looking, but the striving to go up. One hears the very grating of the iron tipped shoe on the rugged rock, the striking of the staff upon the hard soil, as the singers ascend step by step up, up, up, the very mountain of God. They seem approaching the eternal heights, and all below is insignificant.

Thus they proceed from strength to strength

And still approach more near
Till all in Sion's holy mount

Before their God appear.

(Psalms, viii., 4-7.)

It is remarkable how many of the expressions of the Psalms are wrought into daily use, whether grave or gay, lively or

severe:

King David said in his haste, "All men are liars." 'Gin he had lived in my parish he might have said it at his leisure.'

Lord Palmerston and Bishop Wilberforce once spent a week end at the same country house. On Sunday morning the premier offered to take the bishop to church in his carriage, but the bishop preferred to walk. A shower of rain came on while he was walking. Palmerston's carriage overtaking him, my lord put his head out and said to Wilberforce:

Blest is the man who ne'er consents

By ill advice to walk.

To which the bishop replied in a flash-
Nor stands in sinners' ways nor sits

Where men profanely talk

and brushed on his way.

There is a great hymn, not so much used as formerly, but which in my young days was almost always used at baptisms.

It was written by Dr. John Ryland, of Northhampton, Eng., in about the following circumstances:

Dr. Ryland in 1783 baptized William Carey, the father of modern missions. Mr. Carey was filled with missionary zeal, but handicapped and hindered by poverty, by the cold shoulder of Christian people toward missions, and above all by the refusal of the British government and the East India company to allow him passage to India in their ships, lest the preaching of the gospel would make the natives restive under British rule.

Dr. Ryland asked the would be missionary to preach from his pulpit. Ryland himself sat in the deacon's pew just below the pulpit. The preacher took for a text part of Genesis xxiv., 56, "Hinder me not," and Dr. Ryland constructed his hymn upon the thoughts suggested by the sermon, reading it at the close, whereupon it was sung to a familiar tune. The original hymn had some nine or ten verses and began with reference to Abraham's servant securing a wife for Isaac.

The hymn was finally cut down to the four verses now usually printed, beginning:

In all my Lord's appointed ways

My Journey I'll pursue.

Hinder me not, ye much loved saints,
For I must go with you.

ALL great hymns, all great poems, and all great prose, for that matter, derive their strength and beauty and glory from more or less allusions to Bible scenes and truths and the associations of the Christian religion.

Miss Elizabeth M. Rowland, of Reed college, Portland, recently published the following, which she says is a "well vouched for story.":

"A Harvard professor was giving a lecture on Shakespeare, and coming to the lines in Macbeth,

Except they meant to bathe in reeking wounds,

Or memorize another Golgotha,

he asked a member of the class to explain the allusion, and to his disgust and astonishment, he found the young man unable to even hazard a guess. The professor closed the book and dismissed his class with these words: 'It shall never be said that I lectured on Shakespeare to men who could not tell the meaning of Golgotha.'

I am doubly glad to know this, for it seems to me that the honored professors in the great colleges of Yale and Harvard have not been wont to magnify the Bible history. True, Henry Dunster, Harvard's first president, was a sturdy Baptist, and his name stands high on the walls of Tremont temple, Boston, between the immortal Roger Williams and William Carey. Yet he gave up all on account of his stanch standing by Christian truth, was driven into exile and nearly lost his life through persecution. Nor have I heard of any in Yale or Harvard, since that early day, who have aspired to the martyrdom of the saintly Henry Dunster.

Was it a president of Harvard or Yale who, holding service at Brown university, had occasion to offer the Lord's prayer and used the words, "Thy kingdom come, and thy will be done in heaven as it is on earth?" Some gentleman afterward, criticising the learned president to a friend, mentioned the mistake. "Oh, no," was the reply, "it was not a mistake— that is the way they always say it at his university."

The reference to "Golgotha" is by no means the only Bible citation by Shakespeare. We all remember Shylock in

the "Merchant of Venice," "A Daniel come to judgment, yea, a Daniel," and in "Richard II.":

It is as hard to come as for a camel

To thread the postern of a needle's eye.

So Pope

Who sees with equal eye, as God of all,
A hero perish or a sparrow fall,

Atoms or systems into ruin hurled,

And now a bubble burst and now a world.

And Tom Moore

Here bring your wounded hearts, here tell
your anguish;

Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot heal.

And Scott in "Ivanhoe"

When Israel, of the Lord belov'd,

Out of the land of bondage came,
Her fathers' God before her moved—
An awful guide in smoke and flame.

And Gray's "Elegy❞—

Where through the long drawn aisle and
fretted vault

The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

Not the least remarkable feature about these references is the fact that they are not at all confined to those who honor the Bible.

Some of the finest of Lord Byron's poems are his Hebrew

melodies. There are few things in print grander than his “Destruction of Sennacherib:”

The Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold,
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green
That host with their banners at sunset were seen—
Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown
That host on the morrow lay wither'd and torn.

For the angel of death spread his wings on the blast
And breath'd in the face of the foe as he pass'd,
And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill
And their hearts but once heaved and forever grew still.

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide.
But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride;
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.

And there lay the rider distorted and pale,

With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail,
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal,
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord.

Even the great orator who published his "Mistakes of Moses" and poured forth his matchless eloquence in vilification