ARMY.

thousand worms, and that there are thirty-two millions of AN HOUR WITH THE SALVATION such acres. Now, at the rate of each worm twenty ounces, each acre annually receives on its surface from below ten tons yearly, which gives three hundred and twenty million tons of worm-soil made in England alone. With these figures before our minds, let us conceive, if we can, the results of worm-labor throughout the world. What would they be for one year?

A religious movement which in its fourth year of operations claims some of the largest congregations to be found in most of our great towns, must surely be worthy of attention. When it is added that these congregations are mostly drawn from that "non-worshipping" population over which clergymen, moralists, and philanthropists are accustomed to wail in despair, the movement becomes interesting beyond all proportion to the mere numbers it may affect.

Now to my point. Here are animals endowed with instincts which compel them to transform the useless into useful, to grind and mix with secretions peculiarly their own, for the secretion of which they are endowed with glands expressly peculiar to themselves. And this not for their own use. Some authorities have doubted whether the worm derives any nourishment whatever from the raw materials which it thus transforms; but Mr. Darwin is of opinion that it does derive some, but it seems that this is only in the way of accident, as a cook may pick a currant while making her mistress a cake, or as the ox may snap a stray ear of corn while treading the mill-round of the threshing-floor. But when it swallows mere mineral earth, it is not for purposes of nourishment or of the palate. At the surface, nourishing vegetable fare is near at hand; fare which is rich and palatable, for which, be it remembered, it has a relish and evident enjoyment, yet this it deliber-lence, and the violent take it by force." ately leaves behind, and works for something outside of itself for the soil, for the fruits of the earth, and for man! The whole of what is known as vegetable mould of the surface of the earth has passed and will repass, Mr. Darwin says, through the bodies of worms every few years through the world's history. Nay, more, long before history, before even man appeared on the earth, says Mr. Darwin, "the land was, in fact, regularly ploughed, and still continues to be ploughed, by earth-worms. It may be doubted," he continues, "whether there are many other animals which have played so important a part in the history of the world as have these lowly-organized creatures."

Statistics might be given to justify these remarks, but they are needless. Concurrent testimony, confirmed by our own observations in London, shows that this movement affects poor abandoned souls whom almost every device of preaching or ritual has hitherto failed to bring within the sound of the gospel. Let all have their due, even if we feel constrained to protest against practices which we deprecate. When we think of the raving, riotous, profane rabble fairly dragged at the tail of the Army in its marches through the streets, and almost forced to confront the tremendous alternative of heaven or hell, we find a new light on the words of the gospel, "the kingdom of heaven suffereth vio

What thoughts and feelings should such facts stir! Long before the appearance of man upon the earth, the earthworm was patiently and skillfully preparing the soil in which man's lilies and roses were to bloom, the herbs were to grow for his camel and sheep, and corn and wine, to make glad man's heart. If born of these facts there does not succeed to the first sense of wonder at the forethought and goodness of the great Father a sense of gratitude, overwhelmed by a sad, almost tearful, sense of unworthiness, we must indeed be "past feeling." Whenever we look at the earth worm and the little spiral coil of mould it erects upon the ground, our feeling should be one of reverent love to the Eternal Glory from whom, by these unsuspecting means, such good gifts descend.-London Sunday Magazine.

WHAT IS PRAYER?

The words came strangely from her lips,
When thus she questioned, "What is prayer?"
For I, who knew her heart so well,

Could look and find the answer there.

Her life's a prayer, and she, like John,
Leans trusting on her Saviour's breast;
There e'en a whisper will suffice,

And in that whisper there is rest:

Rest from the care of self, and rest
From all the daily fret of life.
Where could she better work and help
Those who are lonely in the strife?

Ah, she could tell us what is prayer-
From that her early-chosen home,

A lifting of the eye to Him

Who ever gently whispers, "Come!"

The Lord of peace and truth did not speak of himself, in these words. The stupendous power of his divine life, by which he drew men to himself, was quiet as the might of gravitation. The sun makes no noise is swaying the planetary worlds. The supremacy of Christ's love was not that of the storm, but of sunshine which no frosts can resist, and beneath which no seeds of life can long sulk in darkness. "It is enough for the servant that he be as his Master." Alas, if he only could! It is hard for a puny asteroid to imitate the sun. Its nearest attempt is a petty volcanic explosion of pent-up forces. It should be content to reflect the sun. But those rough Galileans whose speech bewrayed them in priestly, rabbinical Jerusalem, did not, it would appear, always content themselves with the "still small voice." They carried their habitual violence into religion; and they "took the kingdom of heaven by force." This is what the Salvation Army do likewise. It may be impossible to help wishing that they were milder-mannered. But if they really do drag captives with them as they scale the walls of heaven, who would not wish them God-speed?

And they do! There can be no doubt about that. Inconsistent converts, backsliders, mercenary pretenders, there may be among their recruits; but that they have been the means of making many drunkards sober, and of taming many a lawless ruffian, and rousing thousands of careless souls to inquire, "What must I do to be saved?" is too notorious to be denied. Let us tell our own experience of one of their meetings, held at the headquarters of the "First Whitechapel Corps," as it is called. There is a special interest attaching to this place of meeting, for it is here that the movement originated. The "East London Mission" had used the hall for many years, when Mr. Booth, a little more than three years ago, conceived the idea of organizing the Salvation Army. With that organization, with its affectation of military titles, and its uniform, we need not now concern ourselves. "Men are but children of a larger growth." And the "Army," equally with the "Good Templars" and the Ritualists, have found, we suppose, some advantage in appealing to the childishness that survives in grown-up people. But this is not of the essence of the movement: let us go into their hall, and try if we can find out what is.

In a wide thoroughfare, almost as crowded and bustling on Sunday evening as on Saturday, we see a dense throng round a wide gateway, and, were it not for the fact that

public houses are the only places of ordinary resort privileged to be open on this day, we might suppose we were approaching the entrance of a penny theatre. The dress and language of the jesting throng suggest that, and nothing else. The same idea is favored by the brightly-lighted vestibule, at the end of which are doors opening into the hall. We pass in, and find some six or seven hundred people already assembled. It is nearly seven o'clock, but the "Whitechapel First Corps" has not yet arrived. It is marching through the streets singing hymns of triumph, and striving, by the aid of brazen instruments, to overbear the clamor of an opposition force now regularly marshalled to shout it down; or, in the absence of the police, to adopt more summary methods. A glance at the audience convinces us at once that it is one of a very unusual character. The proportion of the male sex is certainly larger than ordinary, and they are nearly all youthful. Amongst the women there are many of middle age, worn and wearylooking. But amongst the men nearly all are young; in fact, a large number of them are mere lads, and precisely the sort of lads who appear, as though by magic, in scores whenever there is a chance for a fight or other entertainment in the streets. A balcony runs round three sides of the hall, while at the end a platform rises in several steps, like an infant-school gallery. On the wall above this platform are some startling appeals in big letters-"Will you go to heaven, or hell?" "Let God have his own way," and others more familiar.

When at last they cease, the young man with the symbolic helmet at once leads off in prayer. Only a month ago his Sunday evening's amusement was to throw bricks-bats at the army. Now, with a fervor that struggles vainly against poverty of language, he beseeches a blessing on the work. It is noticeable that he does not speak in the plural, but in the singular, as though he were praying alone. "Oh, my God!" he cries, "bless this meeting. Let souls be converted this night. Oh, my God! bless us now." It is impossible to suppress a doubt as to the wisdom of allowing such recent converts to appear so prominently. But all is so strange to us here that our ideas are somewhat topsyturvy, and we forbear criticism. At any rate, there is no possibility of doubting the lad's earnestness now. We are told he has to bear a good deal of persecution; as he is the son of a publican whose house is much frequented by the Opposition Army, we can well believe it. We earnestly hope he may endure to the end.

After two more prayers, another hymn is raised, happily this time without the ophicleide. Everything in the service is so spontaneous that several times hymns are raised without announcement. Some voice leads off in wellknown words-this time it is "My Jesus, I love thee; I know thou art mine"-and instantly several hundred voices join in, the people all retaining their seats. On these occasions the brass band is taken unawares and is left behind, but each man fingers his instrument as though determined to come in somewhere; and they generally succeed, regardless of pitch, before the end of the hymn.

We have hardly time to look round when the sound of singing, half-drowned in riotous cries and jeers, reaches us The reading of Scripture is not followed with much atfrom the street, and the "corps" marches in, followed by a tention. In fact, fidgeting and whispered conversations are tumultuous crowd that surges up into the balcony, or sub- general. The preaching, which consists not of one discourse, sides into the vacant seats below. The band with their but of several brief exhortations, is-at least on this occabrazen instruments take their places prominently on the sion-more remarkable for energy of delivery than for pagallery in front of us, and we note with some alarm a por- thos, or striking illustration. Still there are points that tell tentous ophicleide, almost big enough to blow the roof off. on the audience. One of the preachers, it seems, had a The army knows no distinction of sex in the holy war. shopmate who is an admirer of Mr. Bradlaugh's. Said he There are women taking their places as lieutenants and cap-"One of Mr. Bradlaugh's friends-God bless and save the tains of the force, and in some of their faces it is impossible man; I don't want to speak of him with any disrespectto mistake the saintly look of pure self-forgetful devotion which we mark in pictured saints whose eyes gaze into eternity. Amongst the recruiting band, who take their seats fronting us, is a youth by no means of prepossessing countenance, who, we learn, was the originator and organizer of the "Opposition Army," but who now, in token of his new allegiance, has a symbolic helmet sewn on his coat; and we fervently hope it truly represents the helmet of salvation.

Without ceremony, without announcement, some voice, we know not where, strikes up a lively hymn, beginning, "I'm a pilgrim for glory," and running continually into a refrain of question and answer,

"Are you ready? Yes, I'm ready, Only waiting till the Master comes." The lively energy with which this is everywhere caught up shows that the majority are habitual attendants. Then a brother in a uniform, a sort of cross between that of a policeman and a rifleman, gives out a hymn from a book, and the ophicleide betrays ominous tokens of activity. The cornets take up the strain, and the multitude join in heartily again. If they could only drown the ophicleide all would❘ be well, but it is a tremendous instrument, much too strong even for the whole force of the army, and as it rarely ever hits the right note, our hypercritical ears undergo some torture. But, bless the man, his heart is in it! He blows as if he were before the walls of Jericho, and their fall depended on his lungs. The discord does not in the slightest degree disturb the singers. Indeed, they enjoy their efforts so that at the close of the hymn they are loath to leave off, an and sing the last two dines over and over again.

but one of his friends told me the other day at the bench, he didn't believe this and he didn't believe the other. 'Come now,' I says to him, 'what do you believe?' 'Oh,' said he, 'I've never thought about that.'" It will easily be understood what use is made of this. Referring to the moral indolence which will not face responsibility, the same preacher remarks: "They say, if God wants to save me, why don't he save me? But they won't let him." Meantime, with all the elements of a dangerous riot at the back of the meeting, the leader shows admirable tact and coolness. When a preacher somewhat ludicrously cracks his voice and has to pause for breath, this leader, without moving from his seat, instantly raises a hymn and gives the orator time to recover. When jeers and mimicry from the roughs become annoying, he says quietly, "Now then, aisle-keepers, look after them chaps. There's a lot of fellows come in here just to help the devil by upsetting our meeting. Keep an eye on them." And the proceedings go on again as though nothing had happened.

One thing that touched us deeply is the impassioned devotion again and again manifested to the Friend of Sinners. It was said of old, "at the name of Jesus every knee shall bow." And here not only knees, but hearts are bowed by that name. "He left the glorious Heaven, and came down amongst sin and suffering for you-for you!" "Ay, for me, bless him; hallelujah!” cries a poor, toil-worn woman near "There's one verse of a hymn tells my experience," says a young man, suddenly rising on the platform, "“and I want you to sing it. It's this: 'All hail the power of Jesus' name.'" Instantly the old tune of Miles' Lane is raised but when they come to "crown Him Lord of all," the rep

us.

him and pray over him. Hundreds of voices are singing, "I will believe, I do believe, that Jesus died for me." And why not for him, too? Yes, glory to God, he must believe. Christ is his Savior, too. It is surely the spirit of Christ that works in him such hatred of sin, such longing to do better. And if Christ be for him, who can be against him? He is a saved man. A strange, joyful assurance of a better future for him takes possession of his heart. The bondage of corruption is broken. He is, at last, entering the gloriousliberty of the children of God.

Let us go. We have seen some things that a little startle,perhaps almost shock us. And we hear of many doings in this army which we must distinctly reprobate, especially in its unwise dealings with children. But if the power of God to heal sin-stricken souls was not present to-night, we hardly know what signs would prove it. As we walk away. through the gloomy streets simmering with fretful human-ity, eloquent of profound spiritual needs, there runs in our head, we hardly know why, the scornful indignation of

tition provided in that tune is not enough, for them. They
have got an addition to it, which goes on quavering and
twirling on the word "crown" for several moments, and it
is an unmistakable happiness to the army and their con-
verts thus to celebrate the Captain of their salvation. Now,
what cathedral music can, in genuine pathos, equal this?
From foul alleys, from reeking gin-shops, from drunken
fights, and brutal excesses, these people have been dragged
into a light amazing to them as the vision Paul saw at mid-
day. Selfishness, greed, passion, they could understand
before, but the love that knows no aim other than the sal-
vation of the lost, is a revelation that overwhelms them
with incredible yet resistless beauty. And they have be-
lieved it. Pierced by its tender reproach-"Thou that killest
the prophets and stonest them that are sent unto thee"-
wooed by its pleading, they have yielded to its inspiration;
and now old things have passed away, all things are become
new. Instead of drink and filthy jesting, they find delight
in praise and work for God. Instead of the triumph of sel-
fish violence, they have the unutterable peace of a complete | Blake:
surrender to God's will. Comparing their present with
their former lives, they feel themselves already on the
threshold of Heaven. And should they not love him who,
at such a tremendous cost, wrought this deliverance for
them? Well may they sing with heart and voice! There
is a music in such gratitude which even an ophicleide out
of tune can not mar. Yes; we have been in many stately
cathedrals, but we avow, never in them did we seem to
catch so clear an echo of the anthem of the redeemed. The
theme is the saine above and below-ay, and the feeling is
one: "Worthy is the Lamb that was slain to receive power,
and riches, and wisdom, and strength, and honor, and glory,
and blessing!"

"Sudden conversions" cease to be incredible to us. A poor wretch who has been assaulting his wife and starving his children, while he has drunk himself to the borders of the grave, comes in here, and the first word he hears is that "the devil is a hard master." Well, that is a self-evident proposition to him. It never occurred to him in just that way before, but now he becomes suddenly aware that he is carrying a real hell within him. The preacher tells a story of a man who found a wonderfully good master, and goes on: "Now I have found a good master; I used to serve Satan; but I heard of a master who paid better wages, and I turned out on strike. My new master promised me good work, with peace of conscience here and rest afterwards. He's paid me regular so far, and I know he will to the end, and my children knows it, and my misses knows it too." Hallelujah! that's me," responded a glad woman in the gallery. There's lots of people here serving a bad master. He has given them many a aching head and many a aching heart. And the little uns get it, and the poor wife gets it, and it's all bad to everybody. The devil never did anyone a good turn. He never lifted up a man in his life. If he did, it was only to knock him farther down." The poor wretch who listens feels how true this is, and begins to wonder if there is any chance for him to "strike" too. His life be

"Mock on, mock on! Voltaire, Rousseau !!
Mock on, mock on,-'tis all in vain..
You throw but sand against the wind,
And the wind blows it back again!”
-London Sunday Magazine.

PLATFORM AND PERSONAL EX-
PERIENCES.*

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN-I have ever regretted the nec
essity of a title for a lecture. I was once asked why I did
not preach. My reply was, I should forget my text in five
minutes. And if I announced, as a title, the ground I hope
to occupy,—if my strength holds out, and your patience,—
and all the topics I should like to touch upon, no hand-bill
would contain it, and the reading thereof would be weari-
some and bewildering. I have selected a title: "Platform
and Personal Experiences." I shall give incidents, des-
cribe scenes, relate anecdotes, and offer opinions and sug-
gestions, and the lecture, if it may be called a lecture, will
public life not altogether confined to the platform.
contain some results of more than thirty-eight years of

Now, my audience by this time expect from me neither logic nor argument, neither unity nor rhetoric, nor anything else that constitutes what is termed eloquence or oratory, and I suppose I shall remind you of a man who was constantly surprising his employer, a farmer, by doing very strange things. One day the farmer went into the barn and found that the man had hung himself. Looking at the body, he said, "What upon airth will that feller du next?” Do not expect that I am going to try to bring to you something new. There is nothing new under the sun, and some persons prefer the old to the new.

A man went into a store "Yes; and asked, "Have you anything new or fresh?" that paint you are leaning upon is fresh." [Great laughter.} Now, I shall proceed to give you some personal experiences, and I shall allow myself the very largest liberty in

comes darker and more dreadful with every word he hears, wandering. This lecture, if it may be called a lecture, must necessarily be personal. It is not egotistical. But I must answer a few questions, for many are asked me in the course of my life in reference to my public speaking, personally. Now, some feel it a cross to speak, and others feel it a cross not to speak. I advise both to take up their cross. This was the remark of a very shrewd man, and whether it be sound or not, I will state that I have been for thirty-eight years a cross-bearer as a public speaker. I have never known a time that I did not dread an audience; and the very first sight of the assembly depresses me most fearfully. * A lecture by John B. Gough, Esq., delivered in the Amphitheater at Chautauqua Lake, New York, August 15, 1881.

and if he does not utter the words, the thought is in his heart, "What must I do to be saved?" And then he is told how there is a way of escape, how "God so loved the world," how Jesus went about doing good to just such miserable souls as he is, and how the same Jesus carried their burden of sin and sorrow up to the bitter death of Calvary. Nay, he hears that the spirit of this Jesus is actually in the assembly, and that all who yield to him are now saved from their sins, and may hope for strength to lead a pure and happy life. The zeal, the conviction, the moral excitement around him are contagious. He falls into an agony and a trance. He is struggling between life and death. People come to

up the other. This action on my part is utterly involuntary,
this fixing on an individual. It is, as I say, involuntary.
Once in a while I have tried all efforts to move men. I
remember one man who was very stolid, and he sat as if
he was going to ask the question, “What are you going to
do next?" I worked very hard, and I thought, "Perhaps
he has a comical element in his constitution;" and I tried
a funny story. I went on telling stories, and I said to my-
self, "I must conquer that man or I can not make a speech;
if I don't move him I can not make a speech."
I was
bound to succeed. By the looks of his face I saw I was
right, and I said, "I am sure of you now." I told another
story, and he laughed, and then I had a fine time.

Another question is, "How do you prepare your lectures?" That is a difficult question to answer without some analysis of myself. For the first seventeen years of my public work I spoke entirely on Temperance, nothing else. I delivered more than 5,000 addresses on the subject of Temperance; 1,160 of them in Great Britain. Now, I never wrote one line of a speech on Temperance, or committed one sentence to memory on Temperance. To be sure, in conversation, and in traveling, and in reading, I collected incidents, and facts, and arguments, and illustrations. I store them in the mind, allowing them to float on the sur

I have often directed the chairman of the meeting at which
I was to speak to make a few remarks; yes, a good many
remarks. I remember when I first faced an audience in
London, in Mr. Spurgeon's Tabernacle, when we had 6700
admitted by ticket. I said to Sir Charles Read, "Make a
speech, Sir Charles, make a speech." And after he had
made a speech I began mine with faltering and with tears.
I remember once walking with my wife ten minutes up and
down the street in Boston, before I dared to go into the hall
where I was to speak. A man says, "That is all affecta-
tion." I tell you I have never been able to overcome the
unaccountable dread of a public audience. After the first
nervousness is passed, I have no sensation except to make
the audience acknowledge dominion over their wills and
affections. If I succeed in this, and especially if they are at
all responsive, the fear is all gone. There comes a conscious-
ness of power that exhilarates, excites and produces strength,
thrilling and delighting. And for that, all speakers have to
pay most fearfully afterward. This is especially so when I
have been placed in new and strange circumstances, asked to
perform some new public service. When I was in London I
was asked to conclude divine services with prayer. I turned
to my wife and said, "Mary, what shall I do?" She said,
"You had better go up to Dr. Parker, and explain to him."
So I got into the pulpit. Many of you have seen it, a mag-face, ready when required.
nificent thing; it is very high, and he stood on a little plat-
form. I said, "Dr. Parker, I can not pray here. If I was
alone I could pray; but now I can not lead the devotions of
this great congregation." He said, "I have got you here,
and you must do something. Give out the twenty-eighth
hymn after my prayer." So, after the prayer, I rose, and I
forgot the platform, and he said, "stand on the platform,"
I said, "Will you now sing the twenty-seventh-the twenty-
eighth hymn," and I gave out the first four lines, and at
the conclusion of the last line I dropped like a "Jack-in-
the-box." That was absolute suffering. I suppose I ought
to be in the spirit of prayer, but to lead the devotions of
others has always been a cross to me, and I have always
shirked it. I can not help it, I can not understand it, and I
can not account for it. A gentleman asked me yesterday to
conclude the service with prayer, but I could not.

When Mr. Finney was in Edinburgh, in 1857, he and his wife called on us at the hotel, and there were four of us,Mr. and Mrs. Finney, and Mr. and Mrs. Gough. We had some conversation, and among other things, I said to Mr. Finney, "I am afraid I am in the seventh chapter of Ro11 "What?" "I am in the seventh chapter of Ro"Then we ought to pray about it." And we all knelt down. He said, "Mr. Gough, pray." I said, "I don't want to pray." Said he, "I command you to pray." "Mr. Finney, I won't pray." Then he said, "O God, have mercy upon this unbeliever."

mans.

mans.

At a lecture in a church in London a minister was asked to open the meeting with prayer. He prayed for the idolatrous, for the Afghans, for the country, for all others, for the speaker, and for those who were instrumental in getting up the meeting, and at the conclusion of the prayer, he said, "Were you satisfied with my supplications?" [Great laughter.] There are some who can pray, and then ask questions about it.

Then I am asked, "Do you see your audience as individuals or in the aggregate?" My experience is possibly the experience of every public speaker; and I don't mean to criticize any public speaker whatever; but to me there is an involuntary selection of the persons to whom I am to speak. My will has nothing to do with it, and when I have once selected them it is not possible to change. In the little speech Saturday afternoon, my eye rested on a lady, the most stolid woman I ever saw, and then on a man fast asleep; and I could not get a smile from the one, or wake

When I was in Sherburne, England, the great actor, Macready, came on the platform and asked me to breakfast with him the next morning. We entered into conversation. He asked me, "Do you commit your lectures to memory? Do you write them?" "No, sir." "Then you have in your mind what you are to say?" "No, sir." I then began: Drunkenness is an evil, and it is our duty to do all we can to remove the evil. And so on. I knew that I had certain facts and arguments and illustrations; but how I was to weave them in I did not know. I will illustrate that point.. Whatever I can make use of I use freely. Now, at Rhinebeck I was to speak on the subject of Temperance. I was entertained by Mr. Freeborn Garretson, at his beautiful estate. It was in the winter-time, and we went out walking on the grounds in the afternoon; and he said, "I wish you would come in the summer-time. Our trees have no foliage, no beauty now. Come in the summer-time, and you will see us in our glory, when you will enjoy the glad refreshment of the shade under these trees." I thought nothing of it. As I went to the lecture, a man said, "I am glad you are come to Rhinebeck." I began to speak, and I used the words of Mr. Garretson. I spoke of the Temperancecause, and said, "There's not a green thing, or bud or blossom now. But sir, it is winter-time now. The sap is in the trees, and the warm sun will shine by and by on these branches, and in the sultry days you will have the warm rain; it will water the roots; you will have the bud and blossom and leaf, and the branches will hang so thick;" and soon I got a big tree, and all the drunkards coming under it for comfort and refreshment. Now, I had no idea of using these thoughts when I heard them; but I try to do the very best thing I can every time, and to speak as if I was never going to speak again, and use up all the material I have got. It has been said "Gough is a mere story-teller." I should: like to know how many have come merely to hear the story. This is true in a certain sense. As far as my temperance lectures are concerned that may be true. When I began to speak it was the very night I signed the pledge. I was ignorant, as I said on Saturday-no education. I had never read a book of history or science; never thoroughly studied an hour. Study to me was only a term-perfect ignorance as far as educated men would call ignorance. I stood up to speak; what could I do but tell a story? It was a story not clothed in beautiful thoughts, not very literary, not very logical, but it was a story-a story of privation and suffering,