puts into his ledgers the faith of the prophets and the fervent zeal of the reformers. Such can tell of gain through giving as no man can write it. The shadow of such persons is sufficient to make one feel that "it is more blessed to give than to receive." But money is by no means essential to giving. In fact, cash values often dwindle into utter insignificance in the greater giving. Money is powerless in the expression of such a gift as Arnold von Winkelried gave to Switzerland and to the cause of freedom. The blood of our Revolutionary fathers, and the more precious blood of Christ, are valuable beyond the expression of figures and dollar marks. Who has not known some one, perhaps an elder sister, naturally talented, who has given up her classes and her prospective college course with everything which usually inspires young womanhood, in order to care for a large family of motherless brothers and sisters? Thus to grow old and go alone down life's further slope is often the divinest giving. Did not James A. Garfield receive from an elder brother such a gift? And if so, which is now the richer? In home life, in social and political circles, and in the business world are mines of wealth which open to none but the true giver. Darkness can find its way to the sun more readily than the selfish heart to these gold mines of God.

One more question, What proportion exists between a gift and its recompense? It is the ratio between Paul's "light afflictions for a moment," and his "eternal weight of glory." It is the ratio between a few cheering words one dark night spoken on the street, and John B. Gough as he is known and as he is yet to appear. It is the ratio between three-sixteenths of one cent, and that place here and hereafter given by God's books to the widow who cast in the two mites. It is a godlike ratio. It is clothed in his infinity.

True Magnanimity.

M

REV. GEORGE R. HEWITT, B.D.

AGNANIMITY is sufficiently defined by its name.

Literally it means "greatness of mind." And that is just what it is-capaciousness of mind and of heart. It may properly be regarded, therefore, not merely as a single virtue but rather as a state of mind out of which all the virtues grow. It is a spirit to do and to bear great things. It bears trials without sinking beneath them, faces danger and death without flinching; can smile benignly on the face of a foe and rejoice in a rival's success; is serene under great provocations, and endures with a steadfast heart both perils and privations for the sake of great principles and the common good.

One of the finest descriptions of a magnanimous man to be found in all literature is Emerson's brief characterization of Abraham Lincoln: "His heart was as great as the world, but there was no room in it to hold the memory of a wrong."

It is in our treatment of those who have done us wrong that our magnanimity, or the lack of it, most conspicuously appears. The magnanimous man bears no grudges, does not enter in the ledger of memory an account of injuries or slights received, but takes a generous view of all enemies, adversaries, and competitors.

Cotton Mather was wont to say he did not know of any person in the world who had done him an ill turn but he had done him a good one for it.

Pericles, the renowned Athenian, was once waited upon by a scurrilous fellow who reviled him to his face. As he was leaving, Pericles called a servant and told him to take a lamp and show the man the way home.

Magnanimity towards friends is touching and beautiful, but towards enemies it is sublime. There is a spiritual grandeur about it that shows man at his best. The union of lofty selfcontrol and self-sacrifice which it displays is the thing that impresses us.

In the Franco-Prussian war a French soldier was brought into the operating room of the hospital at Metz with a fearfully shattered hand. The chloroform had begun to give out, and the local druggists had tried in vain to make it. "Well, my friend," says the surgeon, "we shall have to have a bit of an operation. Would you like to be made insensible?" "Yes. I have suffered so much all night that I don't think I could stand it."

"Are you particular about it?" asked the surgeon.

"Why, is that stuff scarce now that puts you to sleep?" "We have scarcely any left."

The brave fellow reflected a moment, then replied, "Keep it for those who have arms and legs to be taken off, but be quick." He stuffed his cravat in his mouth, lay down, and held out his hand. "Did it hurt much?" said the surgeon, when the operation was over. "Oh, yes; but what can you do? We poor fellows must help one another."

The classic instance of this kind is that of Sir Philip Sidney. Sidney was the contemporary of Shakespeare, Bacon, Ben Jonson, and other brilliant lights of the Elizabethan era. He was admired for his learning and genius, the friend of the queen, the favorite of the court and of the camp. But he is best known and endeared to posterity by the fact that as he lay dying on the battlefield in Flanders and his attendants brought water to cool his fevered lips, he bade them give it to a soldier stretched on the ground beside him, saying, "Thy necessity is greater than mine." Nothing is so regal in man as magnanimity. Man is likest God when he is magnanimous.

Every man should vigorously strive to cultivate this tranquil self-control, this breadth of mind and heart, which are the main elements of magnanimity. One of the best ways of doing

so is to familiarize yourself with the lives and deeds of the heroes of the world. Walk down the aisles of history in the company of the great and good and you will catch something of their spirit, on the principle that "he that walketh with wise men shall be wise."

Without a measure of magnanimity a man is in a fair way to become a wretched self-tormentor as he grows old. He will be narrowed by selfishness, soured by envy, and crushed by the disappointments of life.

The magnanimous man like the contented man has in himself a continual feast. He can say:

"My mind to me, a kingdom is;

Such present joys therein I find,
That it excels all other bliss

That earth affords or grows by kind.
Though much I want that most would have,
Yet still my mind forbids to crave."

Perils of Success.

་

WR

REV. GEORGE R. HEWITT, B.D.

E have not the slightest expectation of saying anything on this subject that will have one feather's weight of influence in deterring anyone from striving to attain Whatever its perils, they will eagerly be braved for the sake of reaching the shining goal. All risks will be run if only the coveted prize may be grasped.

success.

What do we mean by success? What would probably be the reply of four out of every five men whom you should meet on the street if suddenly asked what they understood success to be? They would say success consists in gaining wealth, or at least a competence. This, of course, is not the highest idea of success, but it is the current idea. The age is materialistic, and success like everything else is estimated in terms of dollars. and cents. Such being the case we shall take success in the present chapter to mean simply becoming rich or becoming eminent, either in business or in professional life, as the case may be.

In this acceptation of the term, then, what are some of the perils of success? They are by no means visionary. Though, perhaps, not so obvious as the dangers attending failure they are none the less real.

I. There is the danger of pride. As Dr. Robert South very pithily puts it: "Who is there whose heart does not swell with his money-bag, and whose thoughts do not follow the proportions of his condition? What a difference sometimes in the same man poor and preferred! His mind like a mushroom has shot up in a night. His first business is to forget