And are there not moments when we catch a glimpse of such a possibility? when brain and heart stand still, thoughtless, breathless? when life itself pauses in the transient revelation of such unsufferable light? And we know that some have entered in and lived this light all the days of their lives. To many of us, alas! and in most of our moods, they seem to live in an unknown world—to speak in an unknown tongue. Who of us has not occasionally experienced these thoughts and emotions, in reading and meditating on the lives and characters of Christians of _any name_?—it matters little what; for there is a unity of spirit in all regenerated children of God, of every nation, rank, or _sect_. Fenelon and George Whitefield—the Frenchman and the Briton—the mitred archbishop and the poor field preacher—the Roman Catholic and the Methodist, dwelt in the same light, spoke the same language, because both were one in spirit. What if through the medium of each separate brain, the theology look different? The heart is greater than the brain; or, in other words, the affections are higher than the intellect. “Out of the _heart_ are the issues of life;” and “_this_ is life eternal, that we should know the true God, and Jesus Christ whom he hath sent.” With their hearts, their affections, they discerned Him. And in love they were one with each other, and one with Christ and God. And who, in communing with their fervent souls—in meditating on their perfect faith and love—perfect devotion to God, has not been startled by some such light as this let in upon the mind?—“Why, if this unfailing love—this unwavering faith—this unreserved devotion—this total self-surrender—be the worship we owe to our Creator, then have we been idolaters; for all this instinct and power, and _necessity_ of loving, sacrificing, and worshipping has been ours, and has been lavished, wasted, only on the creature.” Akin to this was the feeling that impelled the dying Wolsey to exclaim, “Had I but served God as diligently as I have served the king, He would not have given me over in my grey hairs.” And as Mark Sutherland stood gazing in bitterness of spirit upon the beautiful scene of his love and joy, the maddening scene of his trial and suffering, these words escaped from his bursting heart: “Oh, God! if I had worshipped thee as I worshipped _her_, Thy beautiful work, I had not been now alone—alone in my sorrow.” It was the sincere, earnest cry of a stricken, penitent, suffering heart. It was answered then and there. Around him fell an influence sober and more genial than sunshine—more refreshing than dew—a spiritual influence, warming, renewing, supporting—a Divine influence, kindling and strengthening the soul within him. The Comforter had come, and was acknowledged. With uncovered head, and uplifted heart, then and there Mark Sutherland consecrated his life to the service of God, and His work on earth.