fact, we confine ourselves within the limits of that illustration, and lose the great truth which one sought to illustrate by it. And so, in the process of years, the fact that Roman law and government was simply an illustration of the truth of the moral accountability of man was lost sight of. The illustration itself was assumed to be a great truth; that at some day, and at some appointed time, by due process of law, in the presence of Jesus Christ, with prosecutors here and advocates there, with witnesses summoned, and parchments unrolled, and books opened, we should give an account of that which we had said and done; there to receive the sentence "depart, ye cursed," or "come, ye blessed." Thus a simple illustration, a court form peculiar to Roman law, has been made the very foundation stone of a superstructure of our modern conception of the judgment day.

Between the sinner and
The church sought to

This was reinforced by art. the Judge stands the church. mitigate the force of this sentence, to plead for the sinner. But at last it became the very necessary condition of the existence of the church that this theory of the judgment seat should be preached. Art was called to its aid. The terrible sculptures of Nicholas upon the baptistry in Pisa tell how art lent itself to the church to picture out in stone this old time illustration, which was now assumed to be an awful fact. On the canvas of Michael Angelo the same truth is portrayed; while Dante added to it the terrible pictures of his Inferno, and Milton his Paradise Lost. Our modern idea of the judgment, then, is not a biblical thing. It is made up of the court forms of Rome; it is made up of the pictures and sculptures of ancient art, added to by the lurid imagination of the disappointed Dante, and by Milton, sad, broken, discouraged and embittered.

It is a long way from that word and thought of Paul to our modern idea of the judgment seat of Christ. But what did Paul mean by it? This: The judgment seat of Christ is the soul itself; those thoughts and feelings which are awakened within us by Christian living. In Tennyson's poem of "Sea Dreams," the story is told of a poor city clerk whose little savings had been misappropriated by a man, "with all his conscience and one eye askew," oily and plausible and false at heart, oozing "all over with fat affectionate smile that makes the widow lean." The man has seen his little savings lost and realizes what it means. What wonder that in his bitterness he denounces the man as a hypocrite, and calls down upon him all possible pain and punishment? But the gentle wife who lies beside him says:

"His gain is loss; for he who wrongs his friend
Wrongs himself more, and ever bears about
A silent court of justice in his breast,
Himself the judge and jury, and himself
The prisoner at the bar, ever condemned."

That is what Paul meant. The judgment seat of Christ is your moral consciousness. It is built up out of those convictions and ideas that have come to us along the line of Christian living. In this silent court we are judge, and we are jury, and we are the prisoner at the bar, condemned or confirmed in that which we have done. The Roman Court was not simply a place of punishment; it was the place of the adjudication of entangled questions, the smoothing out of things that could not be understood. This silent court that is within us, Christ's judgment seat, before it comes every act and every thought. Here are the ancient laws within us, written upon the living tables of the

heart. There is no delay; no postponement of action; there is no change of venue; no question as to jurisdiction; there is no quibble on disputed points; no delay in the sentence-ourselves the judge and jury, and ourselves the prisoner or the appealer at that bar.

The ancient laws of truth and justice and mercy, which were a part of us from the beginning, which antedate the very creation of the world itself, they are there, silent judges, part of ourselves; and they pass their sentence upon every motive. They help us to distinguish between the right and the wrong, the noble and the base. If, from that august presence, with the judgment of that court upon an action, we turn and do the wrong thing, we are brought back to the same bar and are instantly condemned. We can not work out that sentence. The consequences of it become a part of the soul itself. If you have chosen to do the base thing, you are base, and baser and more degraded you become. If from that silent and august presence you go, with its judgment written upon your consciousness, and obey it, there is no halt or hesitation in the reward that comes. The good thing that you have done, that you are. From that moment you are stronger, truer, more helpful, more godlike.

It is from this silent court of justice, which is set up within the heart, that there come these finer obligations. As it is a more complex thing to live in America than it is in France or Germany or England, it is a more complex thing to be a Christian when you depend upon the voice that is within than if you are listening to the voice that is without. You do not ask the opinion of the market upon the transaction. What do I think myself upon it? You do not wait to see the consequence of it, whether you may evade it, whether honesty is the best policy or not. You know whether it is honest or whether it is dishonest, whether it is noble or

whether it is base. This is the silent court of justice which God sets up in every human heart.

This is serious thinking. The sooner we know that we are responsible to ourselves, and more and more responsible through ever increasing complexity, not to ten commandments, but to ten times a hundred commandments, so much the sooner shall we grow into the likeness of him upon whose sensitive soul these thoughts of God impressed themselves, and who lived. to the level of the thing that he thought.

Now, while in all this there is a certain danger of erratic action or eccentric thought, we are saved from this by obedience. For see! Nature at all times uses obedience to the will of God, or the law of nature, which is the same thing, in order to produce conformity to the type. For example, you know how many varieties there are of the chrysanthemum. There are thousands of them that have these strange variations of form. We would not recognize them, and yet they are all developments of one simple, natural flower. But these developments and changes are not natural, they are artificial. They are made by the caprice of man. The florist finds a certain demand for a new form; therefore, he takes some little variation and emphasizes it by natural selection, until at last he has brought out a varied form. Yet nature, in a certain sense, does not like this. It is interference. Nature tries to keep the type always distinct, so that you may know a thing is an oyster and not a flower; to make the lines of distinction sharp enough to allow of variety and beauty, but always conformity to the type. Nature, if let alone, if the florists would stop for twelve months, would cause most of these varieties to disappear, and in their place would be seen a few varieties only of the original type, where there may be a thousand now. If there was no attempt to retain this erraticism or eccentricity

of form, it would revert to its original condition. Conformity to the general type, to the great principle and idea, is made by obedience to the laws of nature. crystal always forms in the same way, whether it is of snow or of salt. A flower grows on the same general plan when not interfered with.

Erraticism of human conduct and the eccentricity of human opinion result from listening to all the varied voices and opinions of the world; while conformity to one great type, of which Jesus Christ is the expression, comes to us by obedience to the free, simple, natural laws of truth, justice and mercy. Instant and quick obedience to these dictates of the soul builds up a character after the image of Jesus Christ, the noblest ideal conception which we have of humanity. But listening to the thousand voices of public opinion; trying to conform ourselves to this rule of action or to that; to believe with that creed or with this, results in all these varied, errant forms of life and thought with which we are so familiar.

Therefore, coming ever into this silent court of justice in the soul, obeying the decision of the silent judge there, the ideal Christ, we grow to be like him. Like him, not like each other; not like this Church or that precedent, but like him who lived truth, and justice, and mercy. Conformity, obedience to the law of God that is within us, produces conformity to the Christ, historical or ideal, whom, "not having seen we love." Does any one dare to say that this is an easy thing to do? It is harder than it is to live as precedent determines, or as custom affirms. But the resultant man is strong and self-reliant, his word is as good as his bond. Wherever he goes he carries his conscience with him. His silent court of justice continually passes an affirmation upon his actions, saying to him, "that was right," and giving him the increased power to speak anothe