parable to be, not a parable, but a real history, what class of occurrences would it describe?

Minister. Just so.

George. I find no difficulty in that. Our Saviour evidently refers to what you will, perhaps, allow me to term, rustic affairs, and agricultural proceedings. That appears from the very opening, "Hearken; Behold, there went out a sower to sow his seed."

Minister. Very well. You have here a husbandman who provides the seed with which he intends to perform the necessary duty of sowing. Our Lord, you will perceive, passes by the previous agricultural processes, (the ploughing, for instance,) and brings before us a husbandman who had a certain portion of ground;-arable, as we should call it, to distinguish it from pasture land;—and being desirous of gathering from it a crop of some particular kind of grain,—wheat, or barley, as the case might be,—he takes his seed, and goes forth to sow. Two points in the narrative then, are now before us: the person, a husbandman; the action, seed-sowing. Two more, however, must be noticed before we can come to explanation. One relates to place, the other to time. Where (I mean, very generally, in what kind of place) did these supposed events occur?

George. Why, I suppose, I should say, in what we now should call the husbandman's farm: that portion of it, at least, which he had determined to employ in raising corn, rather than in feeding cattle.

Minister. True. And you have only to suppose this to be moderately extensive, and to remember that it was land in Judea, to make the additional supposition not only not unnatural, but contrariwise, very natural, that in the portion to be sown, all the circumstances here mentioned might be found. A well-trodden pathway might lead directly across it, or it might be by the side of a highway, separated from it by no intervening hedge. Another portion might have a mass of rock just beneath the surface, only covered very slightly with soil. On some other portions bushy thorns might be growing; perhaps they

might separate the ground from that which had another owner. Or, the roots of the thorns might be vegetating under ground in parts of the field where their presence was not even suspected, and so be ready to spring up when the seasonable heat and moisture had been obtained. Other parts would be in a state of preparation for the seed. All this, without giving the reins to fancy, (a practice carefully to be avoided in explaining any portion of Scripture, but especially the prophecies and parables; without, however, doing so, all this,) we can easily imagine, as supposed in the narrative. Look over the passage again, and tell me, what is the time occupied by the occurrences?

George. Why, Sir, that appears very plainly on the very face of the narrative. It begins with the sower going forth to sow his seed; it closes by stating the different proportions of fruit gathered: so that the time occupied is the whole space intervening between the sowing and the reaping, between seed-time and harvest.

Minister. Give me now, in your own language, a brief sketch of the history. Suppose it to be a real one, what are the events that took place?

George. Why, first, the man takes his seed, and, proceeding to the ground, begins to work. Some of the seed falls on a path going through (or perhaps, by) the field. The birds take away some of this, and the rest is trodden down by the people passing along. In one part of the field the rock comes near the surface, and as there was no depth of earth, the seed falling there could not sink very deep it would, therefore, come up all the sooner.

Minister. Why?

George. I suppose because the thin soil would be warmer, and the seed would be acted upon by a more powerful degree of influence from the sun, and external atmosphere. Vegetation would therefore go on more rapidly; and the shoots, not having so far to go, would all the sooner appear above ground.

Minister. But what became of it?

George. Why, though "immediately it sprang up, because

it had no depth of earth," yet, for want of a proper supply of moisture, it was scorched and withered away.

Minister. It soon came, and it soon went. But proceed. George. Another portion of the seed fell on ground in which the roots or seeds of thorns were fixed. Both grew together, but the thorns so thickly, that they choked the good seed. They drew the nourishment from the soil; they left scarcely room for the other to put forth its shoots, and they would grow over those blades that were found above the surface, so as to prevent their receiving the necessary influences of either sun or air. Such, it appears to me, would be the case with the seed which fell among thorns. Minister. What became of the rest?

George. I cannot use plainer words than those of the text itself. "But other fell into good ground,”—ground, I suppose, suitably prepared," and sprang up," "and increased,” “ and brought forth fruit.'

Minister. All alike?

George. No, Sir: "some an hundred-fold, some sixtyfold, some thirty-fold."

Minister. What, then, are the leading facts of the narrative?

George. These, Sir: that the seed fell upon four kinds of ground. In the first, it was altogether lost. In the second and third, it began to spring up, but did not arrive at maturity. In the fourth, fruit was produced. In this latter case, there was likewise a difference, of which you reminded me. Some parts of the good ground produced fruit only thirty-fold; others, sixty; others, a hundred.

Minister. On the whole, I hope you clearly see that everything is natural, orderly, and beautiful. And though the occurrences are taken from rustic life, the allusions are not low; they are made to what is not only proper and necessary, but to what is calculated to present pleasing images to the mind. The sower, broad-casting his seed; the fields, with the grain springing up, and thus clothed in verdure; the fields white unto the harvest; the reapers engaged in cutting down the ripe corn, and binding it into sheaves, ready for thrashing. You have here a succession

of pleasing pictures, some of the most pleasing in nature. Nor is there anything in them beneath the dignity of a teacher like our Lord. The Jews were an agricultural people indeed, the ancients generally regarded the pursuits of the field as not less honourable than important. When Cincinnatus was sent for to command the Roman armies, the messengers found him at the plough: and the Chinese Emperor, conforming to ancient custom, annually puts his hand to the same implement of husbandry. I say again that the narrative is wanting neither in beauty nor dignity. Its appropriateness depends, of course, upon the interpretation; and we shall see, when we come to this, that in sitting at the feet of Jesus, and hearkening to his word, we are receiving instruction from Eternal Wisdom. Before, however, I come to the direct interpretation of this parable, as given us by our Lord himself, I wish to make one remark on the interpretation of the parables generally. I have already intimated that we must be on our guard against the excursions of fancy. One effectual way of doing this will be to remember, that we are to confine ourselves to what may be termed the general features of the narrative, remembering that to make the narrative complete, incidental particulars have to be introduced, which do not require a specific explanation. By the aid of a luxuriant fancy we might make the parables say almost anything we pleased: but our object must be, soberly, prayerfully, and in order to an enlarged acquaintance with the will of God, to inquire, in reference to any particular parable, what, in that parable, we have reason to believe our Lord intended to teach. What are the truths and lessons included in the parable of the Sower, we will examine in our next conversation.

WINTER AND ITS ASSOCIATES.

(Continued from page 22.)

In order to assist in finding that more excellent way, we might advise thus, or in some such way as this. Let discrimination be used in sending invitations for an evening

party; let the individuals be as much alike as possible in their tastes, and feelings, and circumstances; that when brought together they may breathe a congenial atmosphere; that none may be daunted at the presence or disaffected taste of another, and thereby be prevented from giving vent to the language of the heart in reference to his or her best-beloved subject. Let not the company be too large; for, in such a case, the warmth and glow of sociality cannot exist, and in despite of almost every effort, the whole will, in the course of the evening, be broken up into groups and sections completely isolated from each other, that is, as far as the purposes of friendship are concerned. Let the invitations include a person of known intelligence and influence if it be possible, who is known to be interested with the society of youth, and who is alive to all their sympathies: such a person may frequently be found in the Minister of the congregation; and when he cannot be had, one who fills some subordinate office in the church might profitably take his place.

Such a person is generally presumed to have at his command a fund, greater or less, of anecdote and recollections; and with this advantage he could lead the conversation without the least appearance of obtrusion. The circumstances of the occasion would lead him to do this; his influence would justify him in doing it; and nothing but rude apathy, or offensive loquacity, on the part of those who were around, would prevent him from being completely successful. A well-related anecdote of the great, the illustrious, and the good, whether they are living or dead, or a revived passage of private history, has often in a well-selected company called forth a most animated and delightful conversation. Many of us can recollect seeing the faces of our friends radiant with kindly excitement and delight, when some kind person in the semicircle has, by a single glance at some one gone by, and qualified by a comment of his own, sent us all to our principles and opinions. There will be differences of opinion, no doubt; and would we have those differences of opinion suppressed, and a tame acquiescence forced upon every proposition,