m that the place was holy; and as
he closed Tom's lifeless eyes, and rose to leave the dead, only one
thought possessed him--What a thing it is to be a Christian!'

It is indeed!

XX

ANDREW BONAR'S TEXT

I

It is an old-fashioned Scottish kirk--and the Communion Sabbath.
Everybody knows of the hush that brooded over a Scottish community a
century ago whenever the Communion season came round. The entire
population gave itself up to a period of holy awe and solemn gladness.
As the day drew near, nothing else was thought about or spoken of. At
the kirk itself, day after day was given up to preparatory exercises,
fast-time sermons and the fencing of tables. In this old kirk, in which
we this morning find ourselves, all these preliminaries are past. The
young people who are presenting themselves for the first time have been
duly examined by the grave and somber elders, and, having survived that
fiery and searching ordeal, have received their tokens. And now
everything is ready. The great day has actually come. The snowy cloths
drape the pews; everything is in readiness for the solemn festival; the
people come from far and near. But I am not concerned with those who, on
this impressive and memorable occasion, throng around the table and
partake of the sacred mysteries. For, at the back of the kirk, high up,
is a cavernous and apparently empty old gallery, dark and dismal. Is it
empty? What is that patch of paleness that I see up in the corner? Is it
a face? It is! It is the grave and eager face of a small boy; a face
overspread with awe and wonder as he gazes upon the affecting and
impressive scene that is being enacted below. 'As a child,' said Dr.
Bonar, many years afterwards, when addressing the little people of his
own congregation, 'as a child I used to love to creep up into that old
gallery on Communion Sabbaths. How I trembled as I climbed up the
stairs! And how I shuddered when the minister entered and began the
service! When I saw young people of my own acquaintance take the holy
emblems for the first time, I wondered if, one great and beautiful day,
I should myself be found among the communicants. But the thought always
died in the moment of its birth. For I found in my heart so much that
must keep me from the love of Christ. I thought, as I sat in the deep
recesses of that gloomy old gallery, that I must purge my soul of all
defilement, and cultivate all the graces of the faith, before I could
hope