the gladiators, angry at his interference, run him through with their swords; he falls dead, and his body is kicked aside, and the games go on, and the people-Christians and all-shout applause. Ay! they go on, and the people shout, but for the last time. Their eyes are opened; their sophistry is at an end; the blood of a martyr is on their souls. Shame stops for ever the massacre of gladiators; the hearts of Christians were no longer "brazed by damnèd custom," and because one poor ignorant hermit has moral courage, "one more habitual crime was wiped away from the annals of the world."

V. This was a poor monk's doing, and think not that the race of such heroes is dead. I could give you dozens of such instances of moral courage, infinitely beneficent, if time permitted. I will give you one of quite modern days, of which some of the actors are living now-the moral courage of the missionary, giving up all, suffering, dying, to put down another bad custom -the custom of kidnapping-by Christians too-in the Southern Seas. Transfer your thoughts from the Coliseum of Rome to the coral islands of the Pacific. There stand a large multitude of swarthy savages, starknaked, and brutally ignorant, armed with bows and clubs and poisoned arrows; and among them stand, unarmed, two English bishops: one of them with his quick ear, and ready gift of language, is learning, with incredible rapidity, how to preach to these poor degraded savages the good tidings of the gospel of peace; the quick eagle eye of the other is noting every change of countenance which,-should it become dubious and threatening, must instantly warn them to reach their boat. And sometimes it does threaten, and then these two English gentlemen and bishops, of gentle birth,

of gentle education, have to plunge into the white breakers that foam over the reef, and amid waters haunted by sharks, and devilfish, and stinging jellies, to swim to their boat, while about them whizzes and splashes into the water a flight of arrows, each one of which, if it only graze, means horrible death-death by lockjaw arising from the wound. And one of those bishops is living; and there four years ago, the other, in the midst of that high service, died by the clubs of savages, whom he daily risked his life to save; and they laid him in an open boat to float away over the bright blue water, with his hands crossed, and a palm upon his breast.

VI. Is not looking at such a life something like looking at a hill-top fired by the first beams of the rising sun? Such palms and such crowns are hardly for us who would "go to heaven in an easy chair." By the side of such lives and such self-denials, do not our lives look very vulgar and very selfish? Yes, but remember two things: one, that such lives are at the best but a pale reflex and faint echo of His life, the life of the Son of God, by whose precepts they were guided, by whose Spirit they were inspired; the other that that life of Christ on earth was meant as the example, not only to God's saints, but to all men, and to all schoolboys too. Oh, do not slide into the fatal treason and delusion of supposing that you can give your boyhood to sin, and ignorance, and idleness, and offer only the dregs of your life to God. As the boy is, so mostly the man is; and when I see some wretched dullard, leaving behind him wherever he goes a trail of vice and meanness as a boy, it will not surprise me much to see the same trail behind the footsteps of the man. But let me look at the opposite picture. There was at Eton, not many

years ago, a boy hale and strong and fresh coloured, and athletic-a boy frank as the day, and diligent, and docile -not particularly clever, but always high in his form; captain of the boats; in the cricket eleven; very popular, yet very good. Now it was a bad tradition, a bad custom there, that, at certain gatherings, songs were sometimes sung which were coarse songs, and which were not fit for a gentleman, much less for a Christian (and every right-minded boy should be both) to sing; and this boy of whom I speak-ready to risk popularity, ready to face sneers, ready to seem presumptuous even among his elders-declared that, in his presence, at that gathering, such songs should not be sung; and when such a song was sung he got up then and there, and left the room, and thereby stopped the bad custom. That boy of whom I now tell you grew up to be that man of whom I have just told you. That boy was Coley Patteson in 1845; that man was Dr. Coleridge Patteson, the martyr Bishop of Melanesia, in 1871. Even a boy, then, you see can do at school the duty of a saint; because even a boy can do what is right, and shame the devil; because even a boy can boldly rebuke vice, and patiently suffer for the truth's sake. Will you -will any one of you-do the same? Will you have courage to do what you know to be right, and to put down at all cost what you know to be wrong. Will you try to rise above bad customs? Will you make it a duty to "escape the average"? Most boys do not. The average boy, the ordinary boy, if a school have a vicious tone, catches that vicious tone, and leaves it worse himself, and worse for others. If a house is unchristian, he adopts the tone of his house. If a form is dishonest, he will become like the rest of his form. If one or two bad boys can set a bad tone, do you think that one or two

good boys cannot set, and cannot restore, a good tone? Yes! for sin is cowardice, and sin is weakness, and sin is misery; and we were born to be brave, and strong, and happy, and the instincts of most boys will be on the right side if they have but fair play. Do all you can to act up to those instincts yourself, and to foster them in others. Do not follow the multitude to do evil. Be as the wheat, even if the tares around you are so many that hereafter they will have to be gathered in bundles for the burning. LET THIS be your lesson from All Saints' Day. Thus, may each and all of you begin here, and begin now, your high training as Saints of God.

October 31, 1875.

SERMON XXXV.

THE TRIPLE SANCTIFICATION..

1 THESS. V. 23.

"And the very God of peace sanctify you wholly; and I pray God your whole spirit and soul and body be preserved blameless unto the coming of our Lord Jesus Christ."

BODY-soul-spirit: it is the combination of these three which makes up our mortal nature; it is the due relations between these three which constitute our sole possible happiness; it is the right training of these three that is the object of that lifelong education which should begin with our earliest years, and end only with the grave.

I. Let us begin with the body. When we consider what we are, why we are here, whence we came, and whither we are going, what facts strike us at once about our mortal bodies? The first obvious fact is that subtle chemistry, that exquisite mechanism, that perfect adaptation, which brings home to us our creation by some divine power-which proves to us that "It is He that hath made us, and not we ourselves." The next is, that as we did not create, so neither can we preserve ourselves. So delicate are the harmonies of our earthly frames, so exquisite is the agony which might be