our day that "it does not matter what you belong to," by any of these
books. Very little reflection will show anyone the immeasurable
distance between the sort of clergyman this book describes and the
mere leader of formalities holding a similar position in these days of
ease and self-satisfaction.

John Fletcher was a marvel, if viewed only on his bodily side. At a
time when clergymen had far more opportunity than they have even
to-day to retire into their own houses and do nothing for the world, he
pressed forward, in spite of an almost dying body, to work for God
daily, in the most devoted manner. That he was able to continue his
labours so long was simply by God's wonder-working mercy. We cannot
judge him because he remained in the strange position (for anyone who
cares about God or souls) in which he was found. No other sphere was
perhaps possible for him at that time. It must not, however, for that
reason be imagined that the Salvationist can conceive of a red-hot
life mixed with the reading of prayers out of a book, or the teaching
of any poor soul to turn to such heathenish folly.

We can gladly take whatever is red-hot out of such a life without
allowing ourselves to be poisoned in any respect whilst so doing. But
it seems necessary, at the very outset, to call attention to this,
lest at any time it should be argued that, after all, the Salvationist
life is no better, in our opinion, than the stiffest and most formal
specimen of Christianity.

About this fervent soul, whose wife was one of the few preaching women
of her century, there could have been little voluntary formality, and
if he was able to exist amidst the framing that others had set up for
him, it may be an encouragement to anyone who is shut out for a time