nged mean by "blood." I glory in this
religion of blood! I am thrilled as I see the suggestive color in
sacramental cup, whether it be of burnished silver set on cloth
immaculately white, or rough-hewn from wood set on table in log-hut
meeting-house of the wilderness. Now I am thrilled as I see the altars
of ancient sacrifice crimson with the blood of the slain lamb, and
Leviticus is to me not so much the Old Testament as the New. Now I see
why the destroying angel passing over Egypt in the night spared all
those houses that had blood sprinkled on their door-posts. Now I know
what Isaiah means when he speaks of "one in red apparel coming with
dyed garments from Bozrah;" and whom the Apocalypse means when it
describes a heavenly chieftain whose "vesture was dipped in blood;"
and what Peter, the apostle, means when he speaks of the "precious
blood that cleanseth from all sin;" and what the old, worn-out,
decrepit missionary Paul means when, in my text, he cries, "Without
shedding of blood is no remission." By that blood you and I will be
saved--or never saved at all. In all the ages of the world God has not
once pardoned a single sin except through the Saviour's expiation, and
He never will. Glory be to God that the hill back of Jerusalem was the
battle-field on which Christ achieved our liberty!

The most exciting and overpowering day of last summer was the day I
spent on the battle-field of Waterloo. Starting out with the morning
train from Brussels, Belgium, we arrived in about an hour on that
famous spot. A son of one who was in the battle, and who had heard
from his father a thousand times the whole scene recited, accompanied
us over the field. There stood the old Hougomont Chateau, the walls
dented, and scratched, and broken, and shattered by grape-shot and
cannon-ball. There is the well in which three hundred dying and dead
were pitched. There is the chapel with the head of the infant Christ
shot off. There are the gates at which, for many hours, English and
French armies wrestled. Yonder were the one hundred and sixty guns of
the English, and the two hundred and fifty guns of the French. Yonder
the Hanoverian Hussars fled for the woods. Yonder was the ravine of
Ohain, where the French cavalry, not knowing there was a hollow in the
ground, rolled over and down, troop after troop, tumbling into one
awful mass of suffering, hoof of kicking horses against brow and
breast of captains and colonels and private soldiers,