Good News for Young and Old: Volume 10 (1868)

WHAT a word that is in 1 Samuel 1:28, respecting Hannah’s first-born, “He worshipped the Lord there.” There, before the tabernacle, while the smoke of the offering ascended to heaven, that little child, the “Asked of God,” knelt down and worshipped. What a joy to his mother’s heart; what a full answer to her many prayers; what a lesson to parents; what an example to children. But does the little reader know anything of worship? If not, how the attitude of this dear child rebukes your ignorance! He must have been very little, yet, “he worshipped the Lord there.” Little as he was, his mother’s teachings had not been lost upon him. And yet his opportunities, as compared with yours, were small indeed. You have heard truth, and read truth, that he could not have in those days, for Christ Jesus had not come, and bled and died for sinners then the gospel had not then been preached; the Holy Spirit had not been sent down to lead poor sinners, young and old, to Jesus! The bullock that was offered for little Samuel was indeed a type or figure of that blessed One “who offered himself without spot unto God,” and who “by one offering hath perfected forever them that are sanctified.” But how little Samuel could have known of this; and how much and how often have you been taught about that one precious “offering for sins once offered” upon the cross! And are you yet ignorant of worship? If so, is it not because you have never yet come unto God in the preciousness of that one offering, as Samuel came in the power of that which showed it forth? In other words, is it not because you have never yet really believed in the Lord Jesus Christ, whose precious blood cleanseth from all sin? Only as one cleansed by the blood of Christ can you ever approach and worship a holy God. Till washed in that blood you are “far off.” Think of this, and when you look upon the picture of little Samuel, ask yourself the question, “Have I yet come unto God by Christ Jesus?” Another year has passed away, and are you still “afar off” from Him whom Samuel worshipped? Say not “I am too young yet to understand these things;” Hannah’s first-born was but a very little child yet [“he worshipped the Lord there”]. Hebrews 10:14. 1 John 1:7.

"Bread Cast Upon the Waters Found After Many Days."

BLESSED be God, Christian Sunday-school teachers are now increasing in many parts of our land. May the great Husbandman abundantly bless their pious labors of love, and may the following instance encourage them to be zealous in the work of winning souls to Christ.

N― W―behaved so ill in my Sunday school class that neither kindness nor severity appeared to have any effect upon her. After long forbearance under such discouraging circumstances, and fearing her example might injure the other children, I was deliberating upon the propriety of retaining such an ill-conducted girl, when I heard she had removed with her family into a distant county. Years passed away, and I ceased to think of her. A few days since I was told a respectable-looking woman requested to speak with me.

“I think you have forgotten me,” said the stranger.

“Yes,” I replied,” I have, if I ever knew you. Your features are strange to me.”

“Do you remember a thoughtless, careless girl, named N― W―?”

“Yes,” I said;” she gave me much trouble and anxiety. What do you know of her?”

“I am that person,” she replied.

“You are so grown,” I said, “and so much altered, that I am not surprised that I could not recall you to my mind. What account can you give of yourself?”

The following is the substance of the account she gave in reply:—

“My parents,” said N―, “removed from your village in consequence of a promising opening in the town of —. In that place I had fresh opportunities for what I then called pleasure and unrestrained gaiety; for though my friends expostulated with me on the giddiness of my conduct, my selfishness, alas! resisted all advice. But a merciful God was watching over me, and his preventing grace saved me from ruin. I fell ill. Inflammation settled in my eyes, in consequence of which all light was shut out from my little chamber for many months. My family were much engaged in a large factory, and had not leisure to attend upon me. My medicine and nourishment were daily placed on a table by the side of my bed, and from morning until night I had no companion. In this gloomy solitude I was led by the Holy Spirit to look into my state. The sight of my past sins filled me with dismay. My spirit was overwhelmed within me; the thought of death was more than I could endure; a thrill of horror passed through my soul, and a cold damp spread over my frame. For the first time since I left your school, you darted into my mind. I thought of your kindness and my base ingratitude. How earnestly did I wish to hear that voice which I had so often neglected, mimicked, and turned into ridicule! But you were far away, and I could not expect that you would take any interest in one so worthless as myself. I then tried to recollect some of the sacred truths you took so much pains to fix in my memory. Texts of Scripture, which had been stifled and smothered during my thoughtless career, rose up in my memory and brought conviction in their train. In my extremity I looked to my Saviour, of whom I had formerly heard so much, but whom I had so long despised. The fourth verse of the 130th Psalm brought relief to my mind, — ‘There is forgiveness with thee that thou mayest be feared.’ These words filled me with hope; and, calling to mind the earnestness with which you used to press upon the children the freeness of Divine grace, I cast myself at the foot of the cross, ‘without money and without price.’ Resting upon that precious word ‘forgiveness,’ I seemed to be raised from the depths into which sin had plunged me, and was led to trust in the blood of Christ for plenteous redemption. As strength returned I was not a little afraid lest my serious impressions should pass away, and that my gay associates would have too much power over my vain and foolish heart. One Sunday morning, while I was seated by the window, listening to the church bells and thirsting after closer counion with the Lord, I saw the Sunday-school children pass in their way to church. My heart yearned towards them. Oh! how I wished to join them and tell them what Jesus had done for my soul, and how greatly I had been benefited by the lessons they were now receiving! I could not, in conscience, apply to you for commendation. I wept over the past; but the words of my Saviour, in the 11TH of Matthew, — ‘Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest,’ brought comfort to my mind. I felt of a ‘truth that God would support me. This sweet confidence constrained me to say, — ‘Lord, what wilt thou have me to do?’ The injunction given to Peter came forcibly to my recollection, — ‘Feed my lambs;’ and, praying earnestly for Divine guidance, I resolved to make a personal application to the manager of the Sunday-school, though I was a total stranger to him. With trembling feet and beating heart, I knocked at his door. When admitted into the study where he was seated, I told him the wish of my heart, and humbly requested that if, after examination, he should find me competent to the office of teaching, he would permit me to assist in his school. He inquired into the truth of my statement, kindly encouraged me with much seasonable advice, and appointed me to a class of children on the following Sunday. Though weak in body, I was animated with the desire of being useful, and entered upon the engagement immediately; feeling also that this step would check invitations from my former companions. I quickly became personally acquainted with my pupils, and foolishly expected to find them willing to receive what I was so anxious to impart. When my heart was filled with holy thoughts I was grieved at their inattention. They examined each other’s clothes, turned their heads to look at every fresh comer, and sometimes did what I had so often done, — ridicule their teacher. All this conduct brought before me the sins of my youth. I remembered your patience under such opposition, and humbled my temper to the occasion. And now each successive Lord’s-day impresses me more and more with a sense of my own unworthiness, and I pray that I may become a learner as well as a teacher in the school of Christ.”

She concluded by saying, “I hope I have not trespassed too much upon your time, but I was anxious to take this first opportunity of thanking you for all your kindness.” “I heartily rejoice,”

I replied, “in your present state of mind, N―, and bless the Giver of all good for the mercy he has bestowed upon you. Let me beseech you to continue instant in prayer, and to press forward in the important work before you; ‘Be steadfast, unmovable, always abounding in the work of the Lord, forasmuch as you know that your labor is not in vain in the Lord.’”

The Ungrateful Child.

(For Young Believers.)

SOME years since, a little boy, named E―, was placed under the writer’s care. From a babe he had been brought up by some friends who lived a long distance from his mother; and as the duties of her situation were of such a nature that they could not often be delegated to others, she seldom had the opportunity of seeing him. The consequence was, that he grew up in almost utter ignorance of the one by whom he was much beloved, and who well deserved, and ought to have had, his love in return. She fondly hoped, as he became older, to succeed in winning his affections; and to this end, as soon as he was able to read and write, she commenced a correspondence with him. But though her letters breathed nothing but affection, apart from what they contained, it gave him no pleasure to receive them, and his replies were written in such a brief and heartless manner that they were scarcely worth reading. Indeed, after he had thanked her for the pocket money, etc., which she so frequently sent him, he seemed to have nothing to add, as though, while he valued her gifts, he had little or no love for the giver. Often would she plead with him in the kindest possible manner, and ask for a longer letter, or beg that he would write more frequently; but it was all in vain. And when, at her request, the writer sought to awaken within him the claims of a mother’s love, and urged him to do what he knew would give her joy, so feeble was the response that, if aroused for the moment to consider his obligations, he soon relapsed into his former state, and became as indifferent as before. Had it been for want of ability, there would have been some excuse; but it was not so. The lack of filial affection was the sole cause of his apathy, nor was it to the writer’s knowledge ever removed. Poor fellow! after blighting all his mother’s hopes, and disappointing all her expectations, he sank into an early grave.

It is to be hoped that none of the youthful readers of Good News are like the subject of the foregoing narrative; but the moral instruction that may be obtained from it is well worthy the attention of young believers, and even older ones may profit by it. If “ye are all the children of God by faith in Christ Jesus,” you are, as such, the objects of a love far exceeding that of E― ‘s fond mother; for its heights, and depths, and lengths, and breadths pass knowledge. Now it is the will of God concerning you that the love wherewith you are loved should so fill your minds and occupy your thoughts that you might never forget the intimacy of the relationship into which you have been brought; and unless you do realize the tenderness of the tie by which your Father’s love has bound you to himself, that love, so to say, will be lost upon you, and get little or no response from you. You may indeed value God’s unspeakable gift so far as deliverance from hell is concerned, but without a close and constant walk with God, the giver of his own Son, you will be like the ungrateful child who, because he knew so little of his mother, was unable to appreciate her love, and whom so many believers in our day resemble, From first to last they are so fearfully selfish that they think of nothing else but their own salvation and comfort; they never enter into the happy thought that God has his own joy and delight in them, and that he rejoices over them; nor do they know him as the one who ought to be the source of all their joy, the object of their unceasing meditation, and whose desire is that they should be so habitually near him as to hear the very whispers of his love and to be guided by his eye. Oh, if the mother of the ungrateful child was sorely pained when she found that she could not win the affections of her dear little E―as she was wont to call him, who need wonder at the touching language addressed by God to Israel when they would have none of him, and forgot him “days without number”? Surely the words, “O my people, what have I done unto thee? Wherein have I wearied thee?” proclaim in language that cannot be mistaken that his soul was deeply grieved when the objects of his everlasting love slighted him and disregarded his voice.

Guard then, beloved readers, against a distant walk from God; for the farther you live from him the more scanty and imperfect will be your knowledge of him. The sweet confidence and simple trust which become you “as dear children” will be unknown; you will have no “joy in God,” nor any more delight in “the word of his grace,” than E―had in the perusal of his mother’s letters; and if you keep up a form of prayer it will be cold and irksome, and almost as breathless as death itself. And though the pleadings of infinite, tender, and unchanging love may arouse you for a moment to “consider your ways,” and the thought that there has been nothing in the Lord’s dealings with you but kindness from beginning to end awaken within you the sense of your ungrateful returns, you will soon recede into your former condition, and be content to live days and weeks without communion with God, unless you learn to make the Lord himself the source of your delight and contemplation, and to know him as the one who is infinitely more to you than all the gifts he has bestowed upon you.

"The Saviour's Love."

	The Saviour is gracious, The love of a mother
	His love is a well; And father is great;
	His blood is most precious, — The love of a brother
	Its worth who can tell? And sister so sweet;
	He loved us so truly, Yet who but the Saviour
	He came from the sky, For us would have died,
	That he, the Most Holy, That we, blest Forever,
	For sinners might die. With him might abide!
	From heaven, his dwelling, In mercy delighting
	That bright, blessed place, He speaks from above,
	He sweetly is telling Poor sinners inviting
	Us all of his grace; To trust in His love.

"Children Young in Years and Tender."

Children young in years and tender

Once in Jesu’s arms were found;

“Suffer them to come!” He uttered,

For his mercy knew no bound.

Blessings he pronounced upon them—

Blessings large and rich and free,

Thus of old he blest the children, —

Child, has he e’er so blessed thee?

Not too young, — indeed thou art not!

Little children then he blessed,

‘Tis to little ones he offers

Sweet repose upon his breast.

Sinful, helpless, — go to Jesus,

To his arms for shelter flee;

For, as once he blest the children,

Surely he will now bless THEE.

The Dying Robber.

An Occurrence in Ireland.

DURING a terrible visitation of the cholera, many years ago, a servant of Christ, after a day spent in ministering to many a sick and dying person had retired early, fatigued and exhausted, to his bed, hoping to enjoy for a few hours the repose which he much needed. He lay for some time but could not sleep; the scenes he had witnessed that day, the countenances of the dying, some racked with agonizing pain, and some in the living death-like torpor of the collapsed state, seemed still before him, and a nervous feverishness from this excitement, banished sleep from his eyelids.

“Oh,” thought he, “that men were wise, that they understood this, that they would consider their latter end!” and he shuddered at the fearful contrast which that day had presented to him, in the case of too many. The clock struck twelve, and he had just fallen into a slumber, when a knock at the hall door aroused him: he heard it opened, and in a few minutes his servant entered the room.

“Sir, there is a man below who says he must speak with you.”

“Ask him his name and business.”

“He says, sir, he must speak to yourself.”

Mr. T― rose, dressed himself in haste, and taking the candle left by his servant, descended into the hall. The man stood close to the door. Mr. T― approached, and held the light to his face, which he seemed rather anxious to conceal. The countenance which he beheld was appalling; dark and thick mustachios covered the upper lip; the beard was long and neglected; the eye was sunk, and exhibited an expression of being long familiarized with crime, and reckless of its consequences.

“What do you want with me?” said the clergan.

“I want you to come to a dying man, who wishes to speak with you.”

“What is his complaint?”

“Cholera.”

Mr. T― hesitated; and at length said, “I cannot go with you; you do not even tell me your name, nor the place to which you would lead me; I fear to trust my life in your hands.”

“You need not fear,” said the stranger; “what end would it serve to take your life? Come with me, take no money with you, and on my honor, you are safe.”

Mr. T― gave another glance at the man, and the word honor, connected with the appearance of such a being, made him smile. “Sit down,” said he; “I will go with you.” He went again to his chamber, committed himself to the care of his heavenly Father, prayed for his blessing on the intended visit to the dying man, and felt so strengthened and assured, that he seemed to have lost all fear of accompanying his ferocious-looking guide.

He followed the man through many streets of a large and populous city; it seemed as if they traversed it in the whole length thereof, so tedious did the way appear. The watchmen were calling the hour of one, and still they proceeded. At length they came to a street, long and narrow, with houses bespeaking wretchedness, and well known as a quarter of the town remarkable for the vice as well as the poverty of its inhabitants. Here the guide stopped, and took out of his pocket a knife, with which he began to scrape away some earth from the ground.

“I can go no farther with you,” said the minister; but, considering he was already-as much in the power of the man as he could he in any possible situation, his courage revived, and he watched with intense interest the movements of his strange companion. After some time, he opened a small trap-door, which disclosed a vault of considerable depth, from whence no ray of light proceeded.

“Fear not, sir,” said the man as he let himself down by a rope fastened at the inside.

Mr. T― felt at this moment the danger of his situation. He might have fled, but he knew the man might soon overtake him, and in the dark he could scarcely find his way back. He therefore determined to see the end of this strange adventure, and committing himself again to the protection of the Lord, he watched at the end of the pit until he saw a light glimmer within it, by the faint rays of which, as it approached nearer, he saw the man place a ladder firmly, ascend a few steps, and entreat him to descend, assuring him again of his safety. He did descend into this pit of darkness, which reminded him of the descent of the prophet into the den of lions; for at the bottom, stretched upon the ground in different attitudes, he beheld a number of men, savage and ferocious as beasts of prey, who, raising their haggard countenances, stared wildly upon him. Their appearance appalled him. “Have I,” thought he, got into the region where hope never comes that comes to all?” The vault was large; the candle which the man held scarcely enlightened where they stood, and left the other end in pitchy darkness. The man then led the visitor to the farthest end, where, in a corner, stretched upon straw, lay a man dying of cholera.

Here was a picture of human nature brought to the last extremity of wretchedness, cramped in every limb, his eye sunk and hollow, and his skin exhibiting the blue-black hue attendant on this awful malady when there is scarce a hope of recovery.

Mr. T― shook in every limb; he had been used to patients in this dreadful malady, but here was one in such a state as he had never before witnessed. “Did you wish to see me?” he asked the dying man.

“I did,” he replied in a clear and distinct tone. “Why do you wish to see me?”

“Because,” said the man, “some short time ago I wandered into the place where you preach, and heard you read what I wish you to read to me again: I want to hear it before I die. Oh! it has never left my mind; night and day it sounded in my ear. I thought I could hide myself from God, but the darkness hideth not from him; he has found me out; he has laid his hand heavily upon me; and soon shall I appear before him, covered over with my crimes. And did I not hear you say, sir, that God would slay the wicked — that he would say: Depart from me, ye bloody men? O God, I have sinned against thee: thou art just; there can be no hope for a wretch like me.”

Every nerve in his body seemed convulsed with agony; and he fixed his eye eagerly on his visitor, waiting anxiously to hear again that portion of Scripture which had first convinced him of his sin.

“Tell me some verse that will bring it to my memory,” said the latter.

“Oh, it told me,” said the dying man, “that God knew my down sitting and mine up-rising; that he understood my thoughts; that he compassed my path and lying down, and was acquainted with all my ways; and there was not a word in my tongue but God knew it altogether. That if I could climb up into heaven, he was there; if I went down to hell, he was there also.”

The visitor then knew it was the 139th Psalm that had carried conviction to this poor sinner’s heart; he prayed that this might be the work of the Holy Spirit; and taking out his Bible, he read the 139th Psalm.

“Oh that is it, that is it!” said the dying man, in a low voice: “thank God, I have heard it again.”

The minister then said: “The blood of the Lord Jesus Christ cleanseth us from all sin.” “This is a faithful saying, and worthy of all acceptation, that Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners.”

“To save sinners!” said he; “but oh, not such sinners as I have been.”

“Yes, such as you,” said the visitor. “Here God says: ‘Come now, and let us reason together; though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool.’

“How? how?” said the man eagerly; “what must I do to be saved?”

“Believe in the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be saved. Your past sins will not condemn you; Christ is able to save to the uttermost all that come unto God by him.”

The man stretched out his hands, with upraised eyes, as if imploring mercy; “God be merciful to me a poor sinner!” he faintly uttered, and in that attitude his soul departed.

The minister looked around him; the light of the gospel can illume even this dungeon of darkness and horror, thought he; on him who lay in darkness and the shadow of death has this light now shined. The rest of the men had kept at a distance, from the idea that something mysterious must pass between a dying soul and his spiritual instructor, which others were not to hear. But he determined not to depart without a word of exhortation to them; and coming forward in the midst of them, he spoke to them of the awful state in which they were sunk; invited them also to come to Jesus, and obtain from him a full and free pardon for all their past offenses. “You know not, my fellow sinners,” said he,” how soon each of you may be summoned, like that poor man, before the awful bar of God. Cholera is sweeping this city from one end to the other; there is contagion in that corpse: I know not but this may be the last time I may have an opportunity of declaring the gospel to poor perishing sinners. I am a dying man addressing dying men; but oh, let the love of Christ, who poured out his blood upon the cross to save lost sinners, speak to you, and urge you to quit this pit of destruction, — a faint type of that hell to which sin must lead you; return to habits of honest industry, nothing but idleness and crime could have brought you into this place.”

“It is true,” said the man who led him there, “it was crime brought us here, — we are a gang of robbers. Our lives, sir, are in your hands; but, as a minister of Christ, I depend on your not betraying us. We could not now get employment — no one would trust us.”

“Come to Christ, believe in him; you will find him all-sufficient, a very present help,” said the minister. “Farewell, we may never meet again in this world; but a time will come when we shall meet, and oh, on that awful day, may I find that this message of mercy has been blessed to all your souls!”

The man conducted the minister until he was past the dark narrow street, and could find his way easily to his home, where he returned with sensations of astonishment at the strange and almost romantic scene he had witnessed; it almost appeared to him like a dream; but he blessed God for sending him as his messenger to declare the gospel to that poor sinner, — to proclaim liberty to this wretched bond-slave of Satan. “Oh!” said he, “is not this a brand plucked out of the fire?”

This is no fictitious narrative; it is truth, however romantic it may seem. What an important testimony does it afford to the efficacy of God’s word, when applied to the heart by the Holy Spirit! The word of God was “quick and powerful, it was sharper than any two-edged sword, it pierced even to the dividing asunder of soul and spirit, and was a discerner of the thoughts and intents of the heart;” like what was said by the Samaritan woman, it told this robber “all that ever he did.” He had wandered into the meeting-place by accident, as he thought; but was it chance? — No.

May we not hope that this poor man was one of those rare instances of a mercy which has no bounds, extended at the last hour, — so that none need despair? An arrow of conviction was sent into his heart, which rankled there till a messenger was sent to speak peace to his soul, and pour the gospel balm into his wounded conscience; and he who has all hearts in his hand, so disposed the hearts of his ferocious and hardened companions in guilt, as to induce them to have the minister sent for whom he wished to see, although it exposed themselves to danger, and put their lives, as they said, in his hands.

Reader, if you have not already obtained pardon through Christ’s most precious blood, you need it as much as this poor robber. “Oh! seek it while it is called today.” “Him that cometh unto me,” said the blessed Jesus, “I will in no wise cast out.”

The Tried One.

STILL in the school of suffering, Lord,

I’d live upon Thy precious word;

And Thou hast said, to comfort me,

My grace sufficient is for thee.

When constant weakness makes me sigh,

Do thou regard my feeble cry,

And keep me from hard thoughts of thee,

Whose grace sufficient is for me.

When Satan, with malicious art,

Would act upon my foolish heart,

Apply this truth, that he may flee:

My grace sufficient is for thee.

When flesh and blood would weary grow,

Of daily sorrows here below:

Oh keep me calm and stayed on thee,

Whose grace sufficient is for me.

And though to sight and sense my way

More gloomy may become each day,

Impart all needful strength to me,

And let thy grace sufficient be.

And soon the happy day shall come

When I shall reach my heavenly home

Forever, Lord, to be with thee,

Whose grace, all through, sufficed for me.

The Proud Little Heart Broken.

WHILE addressing a group of little children in a dame-school, upon the history of Adam and Eve, and our sinful natures, I observed the close attention with which one child regarded me. Her dress was superior to that of her companions, from whom she kept aloof; but she so placed herself on the form, that she could see without approaching me. I continued speaking of the sinfulness of our hearts, which showed itself in unkind words and thoughts. The color rose in Martha’s cheeks, and making an effort, she advanced tards me with a determined air, and said, “They all say I am a good girl at home; you are wrong to call me a sinner, for my heart is good, I know it is.” Then smoothing her white frock and colored sash, she added, “You do not know me.”

“I answered,” God, who made us, watches all we do, He knows our hearts better than we do; let us see what the Bible says in Romans 3:23.”

Little Martha, though ten years old, was, owing to a neglected education, unable to read the verse. One of the children assisted her. As soon as it was read, the little stranger turned pale and shed tears. I placed her on my knee, and spoke of the kindness of Jesus Christ to little children, and begged her to learn the verse, “The blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth us from all sin.”

When the school hour was over, I learned from the mistress that Martha was a spoiled child, and had come to visit her aunt, who, finding her troublesome, had sent her to school.

The next week, I was pleased to find my little pupil repeat her lesson with feeling, and after a time she became willing to stand in the class. I then proposed her coming to my Sunday school. This she seemed to like much, but begged me to ask her aunt to let her go with me, and then she need not talk to the other children. The shrewdness of the request surprised me but, promising my assistance to induce her aunt to consent, I called and made the proposal.

“You are very kind, ma’am,” said her aunt, “but I do not expect my niece will stay much longer, and she could get no benefit in a few Sundays, and, while I have the charge of her, I do not wish to throw her among the villagers.”

I replied, “I feel an interest in this little girl, and, if it is agreeable, I will call for her as I pass your door, and leave her as I return.”

This offer was accepted, and the next Sunday morning Martha was waiting for me. She quickly fell in with the rules of the school, with the exception of leaving her class at prayer time, and always kneeling by my side. One morning she observed a Cottage Hymn-book in my hand, and expressed a desire to have one. Knowing that she could not read, I suspected that her eye was attracted by the red binding, and answered, “You will not be able to read it.”

Martha replied, “I have money to pay for it, and I can spell a verse, and then I will learn it, and say it to you.”

To my surprise, the following Sunday she repeated two verses of the well-known hymn-

“Not all the blood of beasts,” etc.

“Did your aunt choose this hymn for you to learn?” said I.

“No,” she replied.

“Did the servant?”

“No, she knew nothing about it; I chose it myself.”

“And what was there in those lines that pleased you?”

“I like them,” said Martha, “because they speak of the blood of Jesus.”

As I was anxious to discover what meaning she attached to these words, I asked, “Why do you like to hear of the blood of Jesus?”

The dear little child replied, “Because I want it; I have not forgotten what you taught me in the day-school, that the blood of Jesus takes away all sin; and the second verse in this hymn says that the heavenly Lamb can take away my sin; you told me that Jesus was called a Lamb because he was slain, and I want him to make me a good child.”

Much encouraged by this attention, Martha became the subject of my daily prayer.

One morning she was absent from school, and I was told her parents had sent for her to return home during the races, fearing she might be in danger. I requested her aunt to let me know when she returned. “Certainly I will, ma’am,” she answered, “but you will be sure to see her at the Sunday-school, for she takes great delight in what she learns there; she often tells the servant who dresses her, to think of another world, and to pray to Jesus Christ that her sins may be forgiven.” This information gave me much pleasure, especially as her aunt also told me that she was not the violent, unruly child she was at first, but that she was more thoughtful and obedient, and gave less trouble. The busy week of riotous pleasure closed, but Martha did not appear. Another week passed, and her place in the school was empty. I waited a fortnight, and then called on her aunt. I found her in deep mourning, and with much agitation she told me her niece was buried the day before. I was much shocked, and begged her, if able, to tell me the particulars of her illness. “I have nothing but what is pleasant to relate,” said the aunt; “when Martha returned home, she found her little sister Lucy not quite well, and spent the evening with her in the nursery. Nothing serious was apprehended, and the children slept together. The next day Lucy was very ill, and was separated from her brothers and sisters, and within three days died of the scarlet fever. Martha soon after sickened, and not knowing of her sister’s death, inquired after her; the nurse for some time put off answering her, till Martha said, ‘I know; I will not ask any more. I know my little sister is gone to Jesus: he loves little children. I shall soon die; I shall soon see Jesus, and then I shall be so happy — quite happy. Nurse, do you know that Jesus can take away all your sins, and make you a new creature? Look to him, do, nurse. You will nurse many little girls when I am gone, I wish you would talk to them about Jesus.’ Her weeping parents were standing by her bedside; her father asked her what he should do for her. Her answer was, ‘Believe in Jesus; love him as you have loved me, and then he will bring us together again, and then we shall part no more.’ To a friend who entered the room, she said, ‘You have been very kind to me, but have you been kind to God? Your heart is wicked, go to Jesus.’ Thus, this little child became a teacher those around her.”

A few weeks after this information, I received grateful acknowledgments from Martha’s parents, for the instruction their child had had in the Sunday-school; and they requested me to procure for them six copies of the Cottage Hymns, that their remaining children might learn the lines that had been so dear to their beloved Martha.

The Rescued Skater.

SITUATED in the parish of B―is a very flat meadow, which is about two miles in circumference, and is generally allowed to be equal to any in the kingdom. Being surrounded by the waters of the Ouse, it is overflowed in times of rain; and though during some parts of the year those who stock it or wish to get their hay are often inconvenienced thereby and suffer loss, few are sorry when a flood occurs in the winter, for should a frost set in, hundreds, and not unfrequently thousands, of persons of both sexes and of all conditions may be seen upon the ice in the meadow, either engaged in sliding or skating, or in witnessing the competition of those who skate for prizes.

With the exception of a few falls and bruises, no danger need be apprehended; for even should the ice break, the water is too shallow to give occasion for alarm. Sometimes however there are parties who prefer the ice on the river; and this, before it is sufficiently hardened, is of course attended with peril.

Many years ago, a person named T― would thus venture; nor would he believe there was danger till the crashing of the ice beneath his feet, and his sudden plunge into the river, convinced him of his rashness and folly. Loud were his cries for help, as with his head and shoulders above water, and his arms resting on the brittle ice, he expected every moment that his support would give away and leave him to perish.

As that part of the river was not far from the town of H―, a man was despatched for a rope; and encouraged by those who durst not venture near him, the poor fellow managed to keep his hold till the messenger returned. The rope was quickly thrown to him; and, gladly seizing it, he was drawn to the brink of the river in safety.

The writer’s object in relating this incident is to remind those who are unsaved of a danger greater immeasurably than that of the, drowning skater. “By nature the children of wrath,” and by practice transgressors in the sight of God; under condemnation, and as destitute of power to deliver yourselves from your fearful condition as poor T― was to save himself from sinking beneath the waters of the Ouse, you may at any moment go down to the pit of perdition, and perish everlastingly!

But, through infinite mercy, your case, though desperate, is not as yet hopeless. Compassion for the helpless skater led those who witnessed his danger to devise means for his deliverance, and “the God of all grace” sent “his only-begotten Son” into the world, that those who were “ready to perish” might be delivered from “going down to the pit,” and “saved from wrath through him.” And, oh! if no tongue can tell the love that brought the heavenly Messenger from the glory which he had with the Father before the world was, and the readiness with which he came to do the will of him that sent him, “and to finish his work,” what lips can utter or heart conceive what it cost him before sinful wretched man could be reached and lifted out of his ruin?

Dear readers, have you, as perishing helpless sinners, believed on the Lord Jesus Christ? If so, rejoice, “for by grace are ye saved through faith.” But oh, if not, you are yet in your sins and in nature’s ruin. True, the work by which alone you can be saved has been accomplished; but it will profit you nothing unless you believe it. Of what avail would it have been to the sinking skater that the rope which formed the link, the only link between him and his deliverers, was within his reach, had he neglected or refused to grasp it? Would he not have perished? Most assuredly; and the blame not only of his condition, but of his refusing to be saved from it, would have been all his own. And so it will be with those who, instead of obeying the gospel, put it from them, and judge themselves unworthy of everlasting life. With all their sins upon their heads, and with the additional sin of unbelief laid to their charge, they will sink into everlasting misery and despair, where there is “weeping and gnashing of teeth.”

Lay then, dear readers, your solemn condition to heart. In all probability you would not have remained indifferent had you witnessed the condition of poor T—; and can you continue unmoved when the abyss of destruction yawns death you, and be reckless as to whether you are saved or lost? Oh, be not soul suicides, but bow to the truth of God about yourselves, hear Christ’s words and believe on him that sent him; and in a moment you will be rescued from the depths of your moral misery and ruin, and realize the truth of that precious saying of the Lord Jesus, “My sheep shall never perish.”

Where will you Spend Your Eternity, Part 1?

ONE fine summer morning a waterman had been training to row for a coat and badge to be contended for the next day, 1St August, 1862, by six London watermen, of whom he was one. He had just brought his boat to the shore, where a great number of people had collected to witness the last row previous to the match the following morning, and many hands were readily put forth to help him out of the boat, some persons going up to their very knees in water to do so. The reader will understand the reason of the anxiety of these professed friends, when informed that most of them were betting-men, anxious to ascertain which was the best man on whom to wager their money; and the fact of this man’s name having been announced in Bell’s Life newspaper, “first favorite for the race,” excited their special interest. He had no sooner left the boat and got fairly into the dressing room, than he heard the cry of “A boy overboard!” Coming to the door and seeing people running from various directions to the steam-boat pier, he hastened with them to the spot, and was astonished to see the consternation depicted on every countenance. All eyes were strained to the place where the boy had gone in, but no boy was to be seen. They looked and looked in vain, nothing was visible but a steamer which had just come up, the engines of which had been stopped, leaving the water comparatively still. Looking carefully around, the waterman noticed bubbles coming up to the surface close by the steamer, and in a moment the thought flashed across his mind, “the boy must be there!” There was no time to lose, those bubbles were perhaps the last breath of the drowning boy. Plunging instantly into the water, the rescuer went down beneath its dark surface. The crowd waited in breathless suspense upon the shore. Down, down, he went some two fathoms deep, and found and seized the body of the boy with one hand, while with the other he rose to the surface with his prize. A simultaneous shout burst from the spectators as the poor child’s face was seen above the deep waters; a boat was quickly sent out, and the boy, taken into it, was carried to the shore, and conveyed to the nearest public-house. Everything needed for his restoration was obtained, and no effort was spared to affect his recovery; but many who were standing by, anxiously watching the result, had given up all hope of his life. Just at that moment his mother appeared, and endeavored to press through the crowd which filled the room. Some, out of compassion, tried to keep her back, and just as she locked her hands and was about to utter a shriek of despair, the boy opened his eyes and sat up. Looking around like one bewildered, lie exclaimed, “Where am I? Where have I been? “His poor mother now pushed through the crowd, and rushing to her child clasped him to her bosom in unutterable thankfulness.

There had been bills posted in the neighborhood forbidding persons to bathe in the Thames; but the lad, heedless of the caution, and thoroughly occupied with his own thoughts and pleasures, ventured into the water. Suddenly a steamer on its way to the pier approached the spot where he was bathing; the water, drawn with great force by the paddles, sucked him under, and he disappeared beneath the surface.

Fellow sinner, are you not so occupied with your circumstances, as altogether to forget God, and the value of your never-dying soul?

“Time with rapid wing is flying,

You are hastening to the tomb;

Every moment you are dying,

Hurrying to receive your doom.”

Think of this poor boy, now no longer occupied with trifles, but thoroughly awakened to a sense of his terrible danger, struggling for life and ready to give the world if he possessed it for something to lay hold of; yet the more he struggles the deeper he sinks, until at last hope dies out, his struggles cease, and he sinks helplessly to the bottom. It is thus, with sinners when once brought, through mercy, to see their real condition before God. The first thought is, “What can I do to be saved?” Remember, reader, you have to deal with God, and so must submit to his way of salvation as revealed in his word.

The boy struggled to save himself, but his struggles were in vain till help came from another. “Now to him that worketh not, but believeth on him that justifieth the ungodly, his FAITH is counted for righteousness” (Rom. 4:5). When the child’s struggles had ceased, and he attempted no longer to save himself, then the deliverance came. A strong arm was extended, and in this he lay a helpless creature, but no less surely saved. Now, dear reader, are you in the condition of this lost one? are you awakened to a sense of your danger? Have you struggled to extricate yourself from the web of sin which is woven within and around you, and found it all in vain? If so, there is deliverance at hand. Not an arm of flesh, but an arm Almighty to save; an arm that never failed to secure the poor helpless sinner who trusted in it; One able to “save to the uttermost all that come unto God by him.”

Where Will You Spend Your Eternity Part 2?

“He who is the Lord above

Left those regions for a grave;

Out of pity, out of love,

That the guilty he might save.

Down to this sad world he flew,

For poor sinners like to you.”

Dear reader, it is a common saying among men that “experience makes fools wise;” and the writer’s experience as to the wonder-working power of God is that it can save the vilest, for it has saved him. The writer, like that poor lad, was lost, drifting down the stream of time into the ocean of eternity. Like the man among the tombs, often bound with fetters and chains, no man could tame him till he heard a voice as from heaven, saying, “Young man, where, oh where will you spend your eternity?” In a moment he awoke to a solemn sense of his condition before God, consciously on the brink of perdition, dead in trespasses and sins. But he was not left there; a strong arm, almighty still to save, was put forth, and plucking him as a brand from the burning, set him in eternal safety. Thank God for his delivering grace! “God is love!”

Dear reader, do you want stronger proof of the love of God than this? Look then to Calvary! See there the love of Jesus.

“Oh hear his all-important cry,

‘Eli, lama sabachthani!’

Draw near and see the Saviour die

On the cross.”

Was ever love like this? “God commendeth his love toward us, in that while we were yet sinners Christ died for us.” Think what it must have cost “the Holy One of God” to be “made sin for us,” to bear in our stead the wrath of Him whose “daily delight” he had been from all eternity.

“What love with this can vie?” and will you turn from it; “do despite to the Spirit of grace;” and treat the precious blood of Christ as if it were nothing? Oh do not so, for your own soul’s sake! “What shall it profit a man if he gain the whole world and lose his own soul? or what shall a man give in exchange for his soul?” Rather confess the madness that has hitherto steeled your heart against such grace, such love, and see in a risen Christ the all-sufficient answer to all your sins; for the blood of Jesus Christ, God’s Son, cleanseth us from all sin; and “if thou shalt confess with thy mouth the Lord Jesus, and shalt believe in thine heart that God hath raised him from the dead, thou SHALT BE SAVED.”

Mick Healy, the Bible Reader.

MICK HEALY was a native of the county of Meath. His father held a small farm, to which at his decease Mick succeeded. He cultivated the few acres of which the farm consisted, regularly paid his rent, and by great industry and economy was able to provide for himself and his family. He possessed the goodwill and respect of his neighbors, and lived in tolerable comfort. He was a strict Roman Catholic, went regularly to his place of worship, and performed his devotions with becoming respect. He went to confession, and punctually paid his dues. He had the approbation of his priest, and was looked upon by everyone as a faithful son of the Church.

Thus things went on during fifty years of Mick’s life, when, one day being detained in the house by rain, he employed himself for a time in rummaging an old trunk which had belonged to his father. In turning over some old papers which the trunk contained, he lighted on the fragment of a book he took it out and read a few pages, and then carefully consigned it to the trunk again. The day cleared up, and he went out to his work. On each succeeding wet day, and at every leisure hour that he had, he visited the trunk, took out the fragment, and resumed his reading. His mind was arrested both by the nature and novelty of what he read. He was excited, and there is a pleasure in excitement; he was alarmed and then tranquillized; he was depressed and then elevated. He could not account for the emotions which he felt. The more he read the fragment the more he wished to read it; he became deeply interested in the subject of it. He read it now not only on wet days, and at leisure hours on other days, but devoted his Sundays after mass to the same pursuit; and that he might enjoy the pleasure with the least interruption, he was in the habit of going out every Sunday to the back of the hedge, and poring over its pages for hours together. During all this time he had not the slightest notion what the book was, with which he was so much delighted. It was, in truth, only the fragment of a book, and had neither title-page nor inscription.

When he was engaged, one sunny day, in this his favorite recreation, the Roman Catholic schoolmaster of the parish happened to pass by. As Mick was an acquaintance of his, he came over to speak to him. He gave him the usual salutation; and as he cast his more experienced eye on the pages which Mick was reading, he exclaimed—

“Ah, Mick, you are reading the Bible; you are a swaddler, and I will tell the priest.”

“The Bible, indeed!” said Mick; “it is only an old book of my father’s that I am reading.”

“Oh, I know well that it is the Bible,” said the schoolmaster, “and if you don’t stop reading it, I will tell the priest.”

“I don’t care to whom you tell it,” said Mick; “it was my father’s book, and I will read it in spite of any one as long as I like.”

The schoolmaster was horrified; and that he might not appear to countenance such conduct, he lost no time in informing the priest how he had found Mick Healy employed. The priest was speedily at Mick’s house.

“What is this I hear of you?” said be; “I am sorry to hear it of your father’s son.”

“What is the had thing your reverence has heard of me?” replied Mick.

“Why, the schoolmaster tells me you are become a Bible-reader; and sure you will not bring disgrace upon your family, and a scandal on the parish?”

“Oh, never mind him, your reverence,” said Mick; “it is only an old book of my father’s, which I found in the trunk, that I do be reading.”

“How long have you been reading it?” said the priest.

“Only about a year, your reverence,” said Mick.

“Show it to me,” said the priest, alarmed at the length of time the mischief had been working.

Mick proceeded to the trunk, and producing the fragment, handed it to him.

“Sure enough,” said the priest, as he looked through the pages, “it is the Bible; and, Mick, you must not read it any more: it is not fit for you. If you have not great learning, like the clergy, you may take a wrong meaning out of it, and it might make a heretic of you.”

Mick, taking the book out of the priest’s hand, said, “Oh, your reverence, it won’t do me any harm; it does my heart good to read it; I never met any book like it; if it does not make me better, I am sure it won’t make me a worse man.”

The priest, suspecting perhaps that if he did not get the book out of Mick’s hands he might get no money out of Mick’s pocket, said in a mild tone, “Oh, Mick, you must not keep it at all; it is not safe for you to have it; give it to me, and as it was your father’s, I will keep it, and take care of it for you.”

“Is it give you my father’s book? “said Mick;” indeed, please your reverence, I will do no such thing; I can keep it and take care of it myself.”

The priest’s tone was now changed; all his efforts to get it from him by coaxing were in vain. Mick would not part with his inheritance. The priest stormed; Mick was calm, which no doubt was very provoking. He held it in his hand, and, looking at it as if his bowels yearned upon it, he said, “And is this the Bible, your reverence? But sure it wants a piece here,” turning to the first page of his fragment, which was in the middle of Exodus; “and sure it wants a piece there,” turning to the last page, which was part of the Prophet Daniel. “Where could I get the pieces, your reverence? Will you give them to me, or tell where I can find them?”

This did not quiet the priest much; this cool confidence rather inflamed him. In an angry tone he refused to comply. Mick, in all sincerity, anxious only for the book, and without meaning any offense, calmly urged his request. This made matters worse; it was adding fuel to the fire; it flamed the more; yet what could be done? — longer delay might end in worse defeat. To avoid this, and to prepare for another mode of attack, the priest left the house, but in the worst possible humour, while Mick very composedly remained, and quietly sat down to read.

It was soon noised abroad that Mick Healy read the Bible, that he would not give it up for the priest, and that he was become a Protestant. The people shrunk from him as if he had the plague; they shunned his company with the greatest aversion, and altogether deserted his house. They were warned to keep aloof from him, partly for their own sake, that they might not be infected, and partly for his sake, that he might be driven to give up the Bible. But neither cunning nor coldness, neither frown nor favor, would induce Mick to give up the book; the more pitiless was the pelting of the storm, the closer he clasped the comfort to his breast. The coldness and aversion with which he was at first regarded were now succeeded by threats and abuse; but as he had incurred man’s anger for God’s word, he seemed to obtain God’s favor by it. He was now learning, like David, to comfort “himself in the Lord his God.” The methods which were pursued towards him seemed to produce an opposite effect to what was expected. The conduct of priest and people together with the knowledge of Scripture which he was daily acquiring, gradually cooled his passion for the services of the chapel; his visits to it became less and less frequent, and at length they altogether ceased.

He now heard, by some means or other, that a preacher, about twelve miles distant, had Bibles, and would be likely to give him one, if he went to him for it. Accordingly, he went there, and called on him.

“Sir,” said he, “I have a bit of the Bible, but I would very much like to have it all.” He then took the fragment from his bosom, and showed it to him.

The preacher entered into conversation with him, and when he perceived that he had made good use of the part of the Bible which he possessed, and was really anxious to have the entire, the worthy man gave him a good octavo Bible, which Mick kept and read to the day of his death.

Mick returned home with his treasure on the same day, having walked at least twenty-four miles; but this was as nothing to him for the love he had to the Bible. He now became a thorough and confirmed Bible-reader. He struck out boldly into the wide extent of Scripture; he felt himself in a new world, and new regions and new prospects opened upon his view. He was astonished at Abraham, and delighted with Joseph; but the bondage in Egypt came home to his heart. When he came to the New Testament, he was lost in amazement. He followed the “Man of sorrows” through his wondrous history, from the manger to the cross. Gethsemane and the Judgment Hall, the crucifixion and the burial, each, in its turn, filled him with awe. He was led to Christ; he believed in his name; he was saved everlastingly; and now he felt his heart dilating with love to all men. He would fain communicate what he knew of Jesus to everyone he met.

During many following years of reproach and persecution, Mick exhibited an even Christian spirit, and maintained the same consistent walk to the very last. He served his Master with fidelity; his honesty was unimpeachable; and he uniformly bore all the petty annoyances to which he was perpetually subjected on account of his religion, with the utmost meekness. Shortly before his death, his son asked whether he was happy.

“Mickey, jewel,” said the father, “no king ever went to his throne so happy as I now am going to my Saviour, the Lord Jesus Christ.”

From that hour till he closed his eyes in death, “the peace of God, which passeth all understanding,” kept his heart and mind through Christ Jesus. His short and simple history affords convincing proof of the value of the Scriptures, and a precious testimony to the grace of God. His sins were all washed away in the blood of Christ; his foes and his fears and his fighting’s now are gone forever; and “more than conqueror through him that loved him,” he is happy in the presence of God and the Lamb.

(Extracted.)

"None Other Name."

SWIFT as you swallows fly,

Airy and light,

Glance the brief moments by,

Out of thy sight.

Broad as you river flows,

Shining as fair,

All thy life-current flows,

Onward, but WHERE?

Think of ETERNITY,

Dear one, in time;

Birds have their voice for thee,

River and rhyme.

Waste not the sunny hours,

Golden and few;

Else when the tempest lowers,

What wilt thou do?

Art thou a child of day

Saved by the blood?

Hast thou the right to say,

“Father,” to God?

Are all thy crimson sins

On thee, or gone?

“Peace” upon earth begins, —

Is it thine own?

Oh, come to Jesus now!

Soon ‘tis too late!

Gladness shall crown thy brow,

Love banish hate.

All the old enmity

Sunk into shame,

Jesus thy joy shall be,

NONE OTHER NAME!

The Snow Flake.

(For the Young.)

How softly the snow-flakes fall! how white and pure they look! How soon the brown earth disappears, and the very mud heaps are turned to whiteness! The leafless hedge, the naked tree, the dark green meadow, the new-made grave, the red tiled roof, the smoke-dried thatch, all wear one color and one covering; one mantle clothes them all, hides all defects, smoothes all roughness’s, rounds off all points and angles, makes the darkest objects white, the dirtiest clean, the dullest bright, and the most commonplace beautiful. The blackness of the newly ploughed lands is hidden now, the faded grass is gone, and in its stead a pure all-covering mantle shines, a sheet of “living light.” And when the “eye of day,” (as some have called the sun) looks down, the whole scene seems to smile as every tiny particle glistens in his rays; and the clearer his light the brighter grows each object.

“Clean every whit,” exclaims the young reader as he looks abroad on the wide expanse of country outstretched before him, and, if accustomed to the pages of Good News, he can hardly fail to see at what it all points.

Of whom did the Lord Jesus speak those gracious words “clean every whit,” but of those that believe in his blessed name? Washed in his precious blood, clothed in himself, the vilest sinner who believes becomes spotless as the driven snow in the sight of him who “sent his Son to be the Saviour of the world.” Vile indeed we are by nature, and our hearts “deceitful above all things and desperately wicked.” And when the all-convicting word of God ploughs up the sinner’s soul, oh how utterly wicked, how black, how foul his own heart is seen to be in his own eyes! But the moment that he comes to Christ, the instant he believes, at that very instant he is cleansed. His “transgressions are forgiven,” his “sin is covered,” his “iniquity is not imputed” (Ps. 22). His old self has utterly disappeared from before God’s face, “buried with Christ,” “crucified with him” (Rom. 6:4, 6). “Yet raised up together with him” (Eph. 2), “he lives, yet not he, but Christ liveth in him” (Gal. 2:20), who “of God is made unto us wisdom, righteousness, sanctification, and redemption” (1 Cor. 1:30) Thus seen in Christ,

“Covered is his unrighteousness.”

And the eye of God can rest in perfect complacency upon him, and see no spot, no stain. How wonderful, yet how true!

“‘Clean every whit,’ thou saidst it, Lord;

Shall one suspicion lurk?

Thine surely is a faithful word,

And thine a finished work.”

“Accepted in the Beloved,” “complete in him,” the youngest believer should never let a doubt linger for a moment in his heart. You are “perfected forever” (Heb. 10). God says so, is not that sufficient?

But there is another lesson yet to be gathered from the snow-flake. If in looking on the believer, our gracious God sees not him, but Christ, should not his fellow-believers be “imitators of God” in this also? Mark how the snow-flakes have rounded off and smoothed the roughest surfaces; ay, the very thorns on the hedge are concealed by them. And if we always looked at a brother as clothed in Christ, should we so readily discover the “points and angles,” the faults and failings of his character? Seeing Christ rather than him, we are looking on, how could we help loving him? For what object so dear to the heart of a believer as Christ? Is there softness and beauty in the snow-covered scene before you? And have you, dear young reader, quite lost sight of that stone-heap, that mud-bespattered gate-post, that rutted road, that rough thorn hedge, which but yesterday had not a leaf upon it to gladden the eye? “Yes,” say you, “the falling snow-flake has completely hidden all these ugly things, and made them look so soft, so pure, so beautiful, that I quite forget what they were like before.” And why? “Oh because,” say you, “I see the snow, and not the things it covers.” Well, it is not so easy always to see Christ in a brother or a sister, as it is to see the mantling snow, but if you try, and ask for grace to do it, you will succeed at last. Faith sees as God sees, and “love covereth a multitude of sins.”

"Massa, You no Understand it."

THERE once lived in one of our large cities a poor colored woman, named Betty, who had been confined by sickness for nearly twenty years. By the few friends who knew her she was familiarly called poor Betty. She had seen comfortable days, but had long been blind, and was said to be one hundred and five years old.

Mr. B. was a man of wealth and business in the same city. His signature was better than silver on the exchange, because it was more easily transferred. His sails whitened the ocean, his charity gladdened many hearts, and his family gave impulse to many benevolent operations. Notwithstanding the pressure of business, Mr. B. often found time to drop in and see what became of poor Betty. His voice and even his step had become familiar to her, and always lighted up a smile on her dark wrinkled face, as he often said some pleasant things to cheer this lonely pilgrim on her way to Zion.

One day, Mr. B. took a friend from the country to see Betty. As he stopped and entered the cottage, he said, “Ah, Betty, you are alive yet.”

“Yes, tank God,” said Betty.

“Betty,” said he, “why do you suppose God keeps you so long in this world, poor and sick and blind, when you might go to heaven and enjoy so much?”

While Mr. B.’s tone and manner were half sportive, he yet uttered a serious thought which had more than once come over his mind. Now comes the sermon.

Betty assumed her most serious and animated tone, and replied, “Ah, massa, you no understand it. Dare be two great things to do for the Church, one be to pray for it, toder be to act for it. Now, massa, God keep me alive to pray for the Church, and he keep you alive to act for it. Your great gifts no do much good, massa, without poor Betty’s prayers.”

For a few moments Mr. B. and his friend stood silent, thrilled and astonished. They felt the knowledge, the dignity, the moral sublimity of this short sermon. It seemed to draw aside the veil a little, and let them into heaven’s mysteries.

“Yes, Betty,” replied Mr. B., in the most serious and subdued tones; “your prayers are of more importance to the Church than my alms.”

This short sermon, preached by poor Betty, was never forgotten by Mr. B. and his friend. It made them more prayerful, more submissive in afflictions.

The Child's Inquiry.

“MAMMA, I read that Jesus Christ

Came down from heaven above,

To seek and save that which was lost

So very great his love.

“I also read that none are good;

That all are vile, unclean;

Are little children, dear mamma,

All covered o’er with sin?”

“They are, my darling; all are dead,

For all are born in sin;

Children and men and women, all

By nature are unclean.

“‘Tis not committing sin alone

Makes sinners in God’s sight:

‘Tis being sinners makes us sin,

And haters of the light.

“But Christ has died, and by his death

Has made an end of sin;

And all who in his name believe,

By God are reckoned clean.

“So e’en a child like you, my dear,

Has need to be forgiven;

Not one is born into this world

By nature fit for heaven.

“The precious blood of Christ must wash

Each soul from every stain,

Before that soul with Jesus Christ

In endless life can reign.

“Oh darling, do believe in him!

Make choice of Christ and heaven,

And peace and joy shall be thy lot,

As ransomed and forgiven.

“Then thou shall know, that not alone,

Each child to Christ must flee;

But, that a very little child

A happy saint can be.”

He Affectionate and Obedient Child.

(For Believing Little Ones.)

AMONG the numerous recollections of this story of life, none are probably more vividly remembered than our school days. Those who taught us, our school-fellows, and especially those whom we chose for our intimate companions, are too deeply impressed on our memories to be easily forgotten. Indeed, in many instances, connections have been then formed which have endured through life.

When the writer entered the last school he attended, he made the acquaintance of W — B —. He was a delicate youth, and so quiet in his deportment and affable in his manners, that he was held up as a pattern to the whole of the school. But it was more particularly as a son that his conduct was remarkable. Deeply attached to his affectionate mother, and entirely obedient to her, his evening hours were invariably spent at home, nor could any of his school-fellows induce him to leave it. Some of them used to call him his mother’s pet, and tell him that he ought to be tied to her apron strings. But this, though intended to provoke him, would only draw forth a smile, with the remark, that he should not mind if he were. Indeed, he never seemed so happy as when he sat by her side, either reading and asking her questions, or in communicating the difficulties he had with his lessons and listening to the advice she was wont to give him. But, alas! his delicate constitution soon gave way, and after a lingering illness, to the inexpressible grief of his mother, he died at the early age of seventeen years.

Not long after his death, a tombstone was erected to his memory, and though the verse inscribed thereon might seem to strangers mere rhetoric, it graphically describes both parent and child. It is as follows: —

“Whoe’er thou art, to this sad shrine draw near.

Here lies a youth beloved, a son most dear;

Who ne’er knew joy but by his mother’s side;

Who never gave her grief but when he died.”

It would be well if all children were as nicely trained as W — B —; but the writer’s desire is to use the moral of the story for the benefit of those who are young in the faith. As the children of your “Father, which is in heaven,” you are called to the unspeakable blessedness of having fellowship with himself, and “God hath sent forth the Spirit of his Son into your hearts” that this fellowship may be enjoyed and maintained. To this end he directs “your hearts into the love of God;” and in proportion as you understand the wondrous truth that you are as near to God as Christ himself, loved as he is loved, and that such is his love for you and his delight in you, that he would have you walk in the light of his countenance, and rejoice in his name all the day, the pulse of divine love will beat strongly in your bosoms, your heavenly affections will deepen and expand, God will become to you an object of increasing delight, and communion with him your highest and sweetest privilege. Yes, it was the knowledge of the love wherewith he was loved that made “the affectionate and obedient child” delight to be alone with her to whom he was “a son most dear;” and as you appreciate the love that has made you “the sons of God,” and “dear children,” your hearts will be drawn upward, and to respond to this love and to abide therein will be your constant desire and aim. And so far as the Lord is concerned, there need not be the breadth of a hair between you and himself. No, he takes too much pleasure in your fellowship to withdraw himself willingly from you; and as long as you seek his face, you shall not seek it in vain.

But while love delights in its object, it seeks to please it, and dreads to pain it. Hence, W — B― was “obedient” as well as “affectionate;” and while he delighted to be “by his mother’s side,” “he also refrained from doing the things which “gave her grief.” And thus, beloved readers, will it ever be where love is real and genuine. The love of God shed abroad in your hearts by the Holy Ghost, given unto you, will constrain you to do “that which is well pleasing in his sight;” communion with the Lord will so increase the sensitiveness of your divine affections, that rather than willfully grieve him you would pluck out your right eye, and cut off your right hand or foot; and the more you enjoy the delightful privilege of being “the beloved of the Lord,” the more tender will be your conscience, the more circumspect your walk, and the more meek and lowly your whole deportment.

Cultivate, then, dear readers, that state of heart which will promote and further the fellowship into which you are called, and watch against everything that would hinder or weaken it. “Draw nigh to God, and he will draw nigh to you.” Walk habitually with him by prayer, and “as new born babes, desire the sincere milk of the word, that ye may grow thereby.” Make him your “exceeding joy,” and know him as the One who is not only all your salvation, but all your desire. Live in the holiest of all, and, alone with him, you will have rich and hallowed intercourse, happy and holy fellowship. Dwell in the very secret of his presence, and you will be so satisfied that you will understand the language of David, when he said, “Whom have I in heaven but thee? and there is none upon earth that I desire beside thee.”

If thus you delight yourselves in the Lord, not only will the stream of communion flow on continually between you and him, but he will give you the desires of your heart. Like “the affectionate and obedient child,” you may have much to learn and many difficulties to contend with, but if you keep an open ear for the still small voice of God’s teaching, you will “be filled with the knowledge of his will in all wisdom and spiritual understanding;” whatsoever you ask you will receive of him, because you “keep his commandments, and do those things that are pleasing in his sight;” and the more you know of a close and constant walk with God upon earth, the deeper will be your capacity for enjoying eternal companionship with him in heaven.

Letter to the Little Ones.

MY DEAR YOUNG FRIENDS,

Many of you, I have no doubt, have read Good News it may be for years. Let me ask — Have you received those many lessons to your spiritual good which it contains? Can you sincerely say, I have found the Saviour, or rather, he has found me? This is the first object of those truths which are found in its pages every month, namely, to point you to Christ; therefore I hope you will consider these questions, for they are very important. If you have not yet believed in Christ the Saviour, let me entreat you now, at the beginning of a new year, to beware how you trifle with this solemn subject; your time, at best, is but short in this world: many, very many, even among the young, are carried to their early graves; and even if that should not be your case, the Lord may come at any moment. Oh, let me warn you, then, to go at once to Jesus. May you have power to believe in him, and thus obtain mercy and find pardon; and then you will be happy while you tarry in this world, and fitted for that better home above.

T. H., Jun.

Plymouth.

And to those among the dear young readers of Good News who have the blessing of forgiveness and everlasting life in Christ, we would say, think seriously over the many examples and persuasions to obedience, communion, love, service, which are set before you month by month in the pages of your magazine. Yes, yours; written and printed expressly for you. Do not read merely to be amused or interested. Good News is not a toy, but a little teacher coming to you month by month to tell you glad tidings — tidings put before you in many ways and shapes to win your attention, and by God’s grace to touch your heart — tidings about the blessed Jesus, his work, his ways, his ceaseless love — tidings about many who have gone before you, or are living now, examples of his grace, and meant to be examples for your imitation in so far as they followed Christ in anything, or warnings where they erred. But if you read without thought, and especially without prayer, you will not get the good intended for you. Will you thus requite those who seek your welfare? As the little ones of the flock, you are objects of especial interest to those who love the Lord; how much more to him “who carries the lambs in his bosom!” May the thought of his love constrain you “as new-born babes to desire the sincere milk of the word, that ye may grow thereby.”

The Hungry Man's Dream.

(For the Little Ones.)

“It shall even be as when a hungry man dreameth, and, behold, he eateth; but he awaketh, and his soul is empty.” —Isaiah 29:8.

IF a hungry man or a hungry child goes to sleep, I do not know of anything more suitable for them to dream about than eating; but you never knew a person whose hunger was really satisfied by dreaming about ever so much food. On the contrary, it is most likely that, after being asleep, whatever they had dreamed about in their sleep, they would have a keener sense of hunger than before, as I fear many poor little boys and girls find out to their pain and suffering in these dull times and at this season of the year. I hope none of my young readers know by experience what it is to have to go to bed hungry, as many are obliged to do, and then wake in the morning to find no breakfast ready for them; but if such is ever the case, you never lose your appetite from dreaming about food, and you may be quite sure you never will. And yet, strange as it may seem to you, there are thousands of people in the world who content themselves with only dreaming about good things, and who never attempt in any reasonable way to get satisfaction for the craving and hunger that their spirits feel.

Let me tell you, dear children, that our whole life in this world is a great deal like a long dream, and that many of the things in it that look beautiful and attractive are only like bubbles, very pretty outside, but they have nothing inside; while many of the things that appear dark and frightful are only as the shadowy images of a dream: they are unreal. You know God says, by his servant James, that even our life is only as a vapor, which appeareth for a little time, and then vanisheth away; and you have often seen how a little puff of wind will drive away a vapor, as smoke or steam, and you can see nothing more of it. And such, I assure you, are all the things that belong simply to this world in which we live; many people seek for nothing better, they possess nothing better, and yet they try to be satisfied with them. The riches, the honors, the pleasures that the world can give you are all only like the fleeting fancies of a dream in the night; and when you pass into another world, where all is real and everlasting, you will forget them like you forget your dreams, and say, It was only a dream — there was nothing in it. And so if you had, while in the world, possessed everything that your heart could possibly wish for, if your soul was not saved and your sins washed away through faith in the Lord Jesus Christ, it would all seem nothing to you, and you would not be one bit better of than as if you had been a poor, half-starved beggar all your life.

In the sixteenth chapter of Luke you may read something about two persons waking up in another world, and what the condition of each of them was. One had been a very poor man in this world, perhaps hungry all his life; but when he fell asleep angels gently carried him, and as it were laid him in Abraham’s bosom, where he awoke and found himself safe and happy for eternity. The other had fared sumptuously every day, dreamed in this life that he was satisfied with this: and cared for nothing else for himself. But he died, and his friends at a grand funeral laid his body in the grave, while he himself awoke in hell, and found that the wealth he once possessed did not profit him then, for he had lost his soul. He was like the hungry man that had dreamed of a good meal he was hungry still, and thirsty, for as he was tormented in a burning flame he lifted up his eyes and prayed earnestly for one drop of water to cool his tongue. But it was altogether too late for his prayer to be answered, as this world and only this world is the place where salvation and blessing can be obtained.

Dear young reader, do not think to satisfy yourself with anything that this poor, wretched world can give you, or you must be disappointed; and if you do not lay hold on eternal life, as the precious gift of God through the death of his Son Jesus Christ, you will find, when it is too late and you are gone too far for mercy to reach you, that all your fancied pleasure was only a dream, and never any real good to you. But the word of Jesus to you now is, “He that cometh to me shall never hunger, and he that believeth on me shall never thirst.” He will fully satisfy your soul with the bread of life, if you will come to him and tell him your need of his grace, believing with all your heart on him who said, “Him that cometh unto me I will in no wise cast out.” And then having a treasure in the heavens that faileth not, where no thief approacheth, neither moth corrupteth, you will have no cause to fear the day when “the earth and the works that are therein shall be burned up,” or when you yourself shall be called to leave this world of dreams and shadows, where nothing is solid or satisfying but that which is Divine and heavenly.

W. T.

"Jesus Only."

I HEARD the Saviour say to me,

Ere yet mine eyes had power to see,

“Arise! thy faith hath saved thee.”

The faith he saw I could not find,

I only knew that he was kind,

And that I had been always blind.

Yet, by the pity in his voice,

I knew to bless me was his choice,

His mercy taught me to rejoice.

And when they said, “He calleth thee,”

My heart began his heart to see;

I rose, his worshipper to be.

Then burst there forth the light of day,

My heavy robe I cast away,

I followed Jesus in the way.

The beauties of an eastern land

Glowed rich and bright, on either hand:

Such new delight could I withstand?

The places where my Lord had been,

Was I to leave them all unseen,

Mine eyes now opened on the scene?

Two words he uttered, “Follow me,”

Sufficed to show me what to see:

“Where I am, shall my servant be.”

Whereas I know that I was blind,

Around I look not, nor behind;

In “Jesus only” all I find.

Jan. 15th 1868.

Wounding to Heal.

THE writer once met with a widowed mother who was mourning the death of her only child. Her little boy had been her only comfort, the only thing that had clung to her in her desolation; and now she was alone — utterly alone, for she knew not the Lord. And as she looked vainly around for the sunbeam that had played on her desolate home, the memory of what had been and could never be again broke her heart! But her heart was broken only that the “balm of Gilead” might reach its inmost depths. She had lost her earthly joy only that she might have “a joy forever.”

He who raised the widow’s son to life, who wept at the grave of Lazarus, who anticipated and hushed to rest a father’s anguish (Luke 7:11; John 11:35; Mark 5:35, 39), had wounded but to heal eternally. When, about twelve months after her never-to-be-forgotten loss, she lay down to die, her last words to the writer were, ―

“You were right. You told me that the Lord had taken my child to himself, to draw my thoughts heavenward; and I have found it so. You told me that, unless washed in the blood of Christ, I could never see my little lamb again, unless indeed it was ‘afar off’ as Balaam said he should see the Lord, or as Dives saw Lazarus. And the terrible thought drove me to the sinner’s only Refuge. Now I am saved, saved by the blood of Christ, saved by grace. The Lord took my little one to draw me to HIMSELF, and I am going home to HIM, and to her, never to part again.”

“Can a mother forget her sucking child?” Yet if memory lives in eternity (and who can doubt it?) how fearfully will it aggravate the doom of the lost, to recall the image of a little one “nourished and brought up,” and parted from, at an early grave forever!

Is the reader a mother? Is she ignorant of Christ? Does the memory of a little one who clung to her with all the guileless love of childhood, still dwell within her heart? and would she see that loving face and form again? “There is none other name under heaven given amongst men whereby we must be saved, but the name of Jesus Christ the Son of God.” “He that believeth not is condemned already.”

"'Tis All."

(For the Young.)

IT has occurred to me that a brief reminiscence of dear I― ‘s history might be useful to some of the beloved readers of Good News. I first knew her as a schoolgirl, though she was by no means fond of school duties, but liked what is termed fun and youthful pleasures; she thus became a favorite with the more juvenile around her, who only aided her in her career of thoughtlessness. The votaries of this world might and would have deemed it innocent gratification; and, blended as it was with morality, a most amiable disposition, and kind manners, the cry of “no harm” would have found in her case many a warm and flattering echo. Dear I—as yet knew not that “all have sinned,” and that in the sight of God even she herself was a sinner. But in that loving and much-loved girl some hidden thing was lurking, and at last it was betrayed by an unmistakable cough: consumption had set in; yet like many other warnings, the cough and various symptoms were unheeded, and amusement was the thing sought still. Christian friends became most anxious. She was visited, and gently admonished. Death drew near, for the disease rapidly did its mission. With a determination to be faithful at all costs, an aged believer made one call more; and from this time, viz. dung the last week of dear I— ‘s existence here, she was thoroughly aroused to her state as a sinner. The burden of sin became intolerable; but that burden was hers, even in her dying hour.

On entering the room I found her sitting in an easy chair, wrapped in blankets. My first question was on the state of her soul. “That is what I wish to talk about,” she replied; “I want a Christian with me. Do not let another word be spoken to me about anything else.” All left the room but myself, and never shall I forget while memory is preserved the solemnity of that hour. I cannot give you in detail the many inquiries she made; but what she so desired to know was that she was saved. “I do not want to think I am saved, or to hope I am saved; I want to know I am saved. Just to think I am dying, dying now, and not to know that I am saved! Yet it is not this dying I fear.” There was eternity full in view, and it was the second death she feared. When asked if she had not thought on the subject of salvation before, she responded in the most emphatic manner, “I used to think it something; it is not something now!” Here she paused breathlessly, and then in a deep, marked, sepulchral tone, added, “‘Tis All! I know that I must believe on the Lord Jesus Christ; but how am I to believe?” Then she longed to warn a dear young cousin, a school-fellow; but the time was over. To her there seemed nothing done, all undone. As her queries were anxiously and rapidly uttered, I could only silently give them to Him who alone knew how to answer her at that critical moment, and simply referred to a verse or two of Scripture I thought applicable.

I can tell you what followed in this world, my dear young friends. Dear I― became exhausted, and gave me permission to ring the bell for help. Friends entered, and she was gently laid upon the bed; her countenance changed, and she departed instantly to receive the answers to all her questions in another world.

Would you like to do the same? If not, just listen to these words, — “Behold, now is the accepted time: behold, now is the day of salvation,” (2 Cor. 6:2.) Will you put off from day to day, or will you come now?

“Come now, let us reason together, saith the Lord: though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool” (Isa. 1:18). Dear I—, when in health, had had comparatively few advantages; I could not say she had not any, the written word being nigh, etc., but many for whom I now write are surrounded with privileges it was never hers to share. Will you let her thrilling words tell on your heart? Salvation something to a sinner? “’Tis ALL!” What are you without salvation, and what will your end be? “All have sinned, and come short of the glory of God” (Rom. 3:23). “But God commendeth his love towards us, in that while we were yet sinners Christ died for us.” “God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth on him should not perish but have everlasting life” (John 3:16). “He that believeth not God hath made him a liar, because he believeth not the record that God gave of his Son. And this is the record, that God hath given to us eternal life, and this life is in his Son” (1 John 5:10, 11.)

(Contributed.)

Wait and See the End.

IF our eyes were always open to see the end as well as the beginning of troubles, we should find our experience similar to that of the merchant mentioned below: ―

A merchant was one day returning from market. He was on horseback, and behind him was a valise filled with money. The rain fell with violence, and he was wet to the skin. At this he was vexed, and murmured because God had given him such bad weather for his journey. He soon reached the borders of a thick forest. What was his terror on beholding on one side of the road a robber, with leveled gun, aiming at him, and attempting to fire! But, the powder being wet by the rain, the gun did not go off; and the merchant, giving spurs to his horse, fortunately had time to escape. As soon as he found himself safe, he said “How wrong was I not to endure the rain patiently as sent by Providence! If the weather had been dry and fair, I should not, probably, have been alive at this hour, and my little children would have expected my return in vain. The rain which caused me to murmur came at a fortunate moment to save my life, and preserve my property.”

It is thus with a multitude of our afflictions: by causing us slight and short sufferings, they preserve us from others far greater and of longer duration.

Scenes in the Isle of Wight, the Dying Sergeant.

IT was during the Crimean war, when visiting a poor Scotch soldier in the hospital at P―t, that I was told by one of the orderlies, of a Sergeant E―y, who was very ill in another ward. Embracing the opportunity, I followed my conductor to the room where he lay. His flushed cheek and emaciated frame indicated that his disease (consumption) had made considerable progress. Being a stranger, and ignorant of his character, I lifted up my heart to the Lord that he would give grace and wisdom to enable me to speak to this dying soldier. After a few words of sympathy as to his poor failing body, I spoke to him of his condition as a sinner, especially pressing the fact of our individual responsibility and having to do with God for ourselves; and at the same time presented to him the remedy which he had prided in the blood of Christ for our need as sinners. At this first interview but little more was said, as it was near the evening, and his exhausted strength would not admit of a lengthened conversation; and after giving him a tract, I left him with the promise, the Lord willing, to see him again soon. A few days elapsed, and I renewed my visit, when I found his weakness had increased, but there was less reserve in his manner. In a few brief words he related his history and the various exercises of his heart, and as the truth was brought before him he listened with much interest. The next Lord’s-day I saw him again; and as the grace of God in the gift of his Son was presented to him, light broke in upon his hitherto darkened mind, he was led to believe in Jesus, and found peace in the knowledge of what he had accomplished by his death upon the cross. There was a natural reserve in his character, so that he said comparatively little; but enough was heard and witnessed to give confidence to the fact of his having “passed from death unto life” (John 5:24). In my subsequent interview there was the same whole-hearted reliance on the finished work of Christ, nor was there any apprehension in the prospect of death and eternity. The 2 Corinthians 5 which I read to him was a source of much comfort, as well as the hymn, a part of which was repeated―

“The Cross, it takes our guilt away,

It holds the fainting spirit up:

It cheers with hope the gloomy day,

And sweetens every bitter cup.”

After bidding him adieu, I left him with the thought that I might see him again in the body; but at my next visit, I learned on my arrival at the hospital that his spirit had departed to be with Christ which is “far better.” The orderly who was in attendance upon him bore testimony to the peace and serenity of his closing hours.

And now, dear reader, where are you? If still a stranger to the Lord. Jesus, let me urge you not to delay the question of your soul’s salvation! Do not imagine that because the poor sergeant found the Saviour during his last days, that such may be your case. This is a most delusive thought with which the enemy seeks to blind the minds of multitudes: how often are young and old suddenly removed in the vigor of health by some fatal accident, while others are seized with some malignant fever, and unable to think either of their souls, or the love of the Saviour! Oh, let me press upon you its deep importance now! —Christ in all the value of his person and work is presented to you for your acceptance; none but he can meet your need as a lost sinner far from God.

You have nothing to do, nor have you the ability to do anything. What saith the Scripture? “When we were yet without strength, in due time Christ died for the ungodly” (Rom. 5:6). To you he still says, “Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest” (Matt. 11:28). Look away from yourself to him whose “blood cleanseth from all sin” (1 John 1:7). Trust by faith in that precious blood, and then you are saved, and made meet to stand in the presence of God forever! “Behold now is the accepted time, behold now is the day of salvation” (2 Cor. 6:2). “Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be saved” (Acts 16:31).

J. M. D.

Seed Sown by a Little One.

A LITTLE girl was one day distributing tracts, when, meeting with a German sailor, she handed him a little book in the German language, called “Bob, the Cabin-boy,” saying kindly, “Will you please take this tract?” The pleasant tones of her voice led him to accept the gift at once, and the sight of his own mother-tongue upon the title-page constrained him to read it. Through God’s grace it was used to his conversion; he was led to see his need, as a lost sinner, of a great Saviour, and was enabled to believe in the Lord Jesus Christ. On being asked by a friend some time afterward, what he should do when he again went abroad across the seas, he answered with a tear of joy in his eye―

“I will try to preach Jesus Christ the Saviour of sinners wherever I go.”

Now, dear little reader, this sailor was able to speak eight different languages. In his voyages from one part of the world to another, he would of course meet with an immense number of people, some speaking one language and some another. To all these he could tell of Jesus Christ to all these he could say in their own tongue, “Behold the Lamb of God, which taketh away the sin of the world!” “The blood of Jesus Christ, God’s Son, cleanseth us from ALL sin.” “This is a faithful saying, and worthy of all acceptation, that Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners.” If sustained by God’s grace, and enabled both to carry out his purpose and to walk as becometh a child of God, setting a holy and consistent example before all around him, what a valuable missionary of the cross such a man may prove! how many hundreds of poor sinners may hear of Christ through him, and telling others become themselves the instruments of bringing sinners to Jesus! Who shall say where the happy fruits of that one little tract, given by a little girl, may stop? Are you a believer in the Lord Jesus Christ? Would you not wish to be honored as that little girl was honored of the Lord? Well then, seek grace to “go and do likewise,” and with every tract you give and every word you speak for Christ, ask the blessing of “the Lord of the harvest,” without which all is but labor spent in vain. Then “in that day” you shall have your reward, and in the meanwhile the joy of doing the will of the Lord will bring its own blessing to your heart and be a present recompence.

"My Shepherd."

GREAT Shepherd of the sheep,

Triumphant o’er the grave!

Thy gathered ones ‘tis thine to keep,

The lost ‘tis thine to save.

The flock ‘tis thine to feed,

The sick ‘tis thine to heal,

The feeble thou dost safely lead,

Securing thus their weal.

Though scattered far and wide

The dark and cloudy day,

Thou dost in faithfulness abide,

Howe’er the sheep may stray.

The broken thou dost bind,

The weak thou makest strong,

The wand’rers thou dost seek and find,

To thee the sheep belong.

Thou laidest down thy life,

To take thy life again;

Through all unrivalled toil and strife,

‘Twas thine the flock to gain.

How beautiful they are,

Thy many thousand sheep!

Those on the mountains seen afar,

Those at thy side that keep.

The young and tender lambs

Thou foldest to thy breast;

There, safe from danger and alarms,

In perfect peace they rest.

Not one can e’er be lost!

Not one shall perish now!

The world is vanquished by the cross,

The Conqueror art thou.

Thou art thyself the Door,

The Pasture, loved and known,

Where quiet waters evermore

Refresh and cleanse thine own.

Thy sheep discern thy voice;

Thou tallest them by name;

In thy protection they rejoice,

Thy all of love they claim.

Thy sheep shall never want,

No evil need they fear,

Till brought all desert need beyond,

They find thee ever near.

In fields of budding grass

Thou makest them lie down;

Ere famine days on earth be past,

Abundance there is found.

As through the vale of death

Their timid footsteps go,

It is not e’en with bated breath,

When once thy care they know.

Great Shepherd of the sheep,

Omnipotent to save,

Thy Father’s trust ‘tis thine to keep,

Triumphant o’er the grave!

Jan. 12TH; 1868

The First Dawn of Light at Evening Time.

IN the county of M―, and in the wildest parts of the parish of N―, shut out from every privilege, lived a poor and aged woman. By industry she had earned and saved a scanty pittance; but, through the ill behavior of some of the members of her family, she was obliged to resign the store destined for her support in the time of old age.

She had gone through life as if it were never to end, —toiling hard, gaining little, forgetting her immortal soul, and sleeping her time away. It pleased the Lord to bring to my knowledge the wretched state of this person, through the medium of some of her neighbors in the valley, and the day was fixed for the first visit. On entering her cottage, I found her dressed in a red cloak, and seated smoking a pipe; her only companions were a child about ten years of age, and two dogs. As far as appearances went, everything was calculated to make the heart sink in despair and the flesh tremble with fear; but Ecclesiastes 9:10 quelled all doubts, — “Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might.” On conversing with her on religious subjects, I found she was indeed desolate. She had entered her hundredth year, and had not believed in that Saviour who died that sinners might live; and as her life was closing fast, it was an overwhelming thought that she must soon be taken from this sinful world, to be lost forever. But He who searcheth all hearts and knoweth what is in the mind of man was pleased to use my visit to alarm her conscience, making her feel her guilt and danger, and leading her to see her need of Christ. Some may ask, “But did she ever repent and believe?” Yes, marvelous are the ways of God. He called this aged creature out of the deepest darkness into light; her memory was good, and though she could not read, she remembered all she heard. Many months indeed passed before she got peace, when one morning she opened her heart and confessed that now she knew what God meant by sending me to her cottage. She said that she had often wondered how I could come so often, not feeling that I loved her soul and wished her to love Christ. The truth of the gospel so often repeated to her came home with power, and she became a believer in Jesus Christ. It pleased God to spare her three years longer, so that the nature of the change was plainly manifested. Her strength was in him; she found that his arm was not shortened that it cannot save, nor his ear heavy that it cannot hear. He saved, he sanctified, he comforted her; and she departed a few months since, in her 103rd year, rejoicing in Jesus. And now we leave her, and say a few words to those who perhaps think old age is time enough to believe. Do you think so? Perhaps before tomorrow’s sunset you may be in eternity. Let me ask the question, Have you really believed in Christ? If not, “come to Jesus” without delay. Why dash away the cup of mercy, and madly dream of salvation without a Saviour? His blood was shed for sinners; and though you have so long rejected him, he still asks you to come, saying, “I, even I, am he that blotteth out thy transgressions for mine own sake, and will not remember thy sins.” On the other hand, let no one think age a certain hindrance to salvation, but cast all your sins at the foot of the cross, seek mercy, and the door will not be closed against you. May all engaged in the important work of visiting the poor be stimulated by this interesting fact; and whatever obstacles arise to stay your progress press forward, you are working for God, and you shall not lose your reward. Go on in his strength, and in his own good time he will bless your efforts, however feeble. “The blessing of the Lord, it maketh rich, and he addeth no sorrow with it.” Extracted.

A Way of Escape.

IN a solitary farm-house at― there lived, some thirty years ago, a young Christian woman who acted as housekeeper for her unmarried brother. One market-day he left home with a large drove of cattle, intending to be absent till the morrow, and in the course of the evening, the only servant girl in the house asked permission to go home to see her mother who was ill. As the girl’s home was at some distance, and her services would not be required till the morning, her kind mistress considerately gave her permission to be absent for the night. She was thus left entirely alone in the house, as the farm-laborers had retired to their usual resting-place over the stables at some distance from the dwelling. Locking the doors as the old clock in the kitchen struck ten, she went into the parlor to fetch the basket of plate, intending to carry it, as was her custom when her brother was absent, into her bedroom for safety, but had no sooner entered the room, than to her utter terror and amazement she saw the legs of a man partly concealed under the table! By a strong effort she was enabled to suppress the inclination to cry out, and quietly leaving the room, closed the door gently behind her; though trembling from head to foot, she made no undue haste, but proceeded leisurely to her chamber. She dared not raise any alarm, well knowing that her cries could not reach the sleeping men in their dormitory, but would only arouse the robber to desperation.

Happily for her, he was all unconscious that he had been seen, and she reached her bedroom in safety. Locking her door, she cast herself upon her knees, and with beating heart and trembling lips besought her heavenly Father to make a way of escape for her. She was beyond all human help; to attempt to leave the house would have excited the suspicions of the lurking robber; to remain would be to risk her life. As the moments fleeted by, she expected to hear the creak of the opening parlour-door, and the dreaded stranger’s footsteps on the stairs. Again and again she asked the Lord to show her what to do; and then as she rose from her knees, her eye fell upon a box of store candles which the grocer had brought that day, and which instead of being stowed in the usual place had, by one of those unaccountable chances (as they are called), on which sometimes so much depends, been carried up into the chamber. In a moment an idea flashed across her mind which she at once proceeded to put into execution. With hurried, nervous fingers she fixed a number of them as closely together as she could in the large bow-window of her bedroom overlooking the highroad, and then set light to them, in the prayerful hope that some passer-by, mistaking the flames for a fire, might give the alarm. As the blaze lit up the window, she waited with clasped hands and bated breath for the result, nor had she to wait long. Presently she heard voices in the road, and then a shout burst upon her gladdened ears, a shout loud enough to alarm the sleeping men in the distant barn and bring the help she needed. The robber below startled by the unexpected noise made his escape, but she was delivered from the danger that had threatened her; the Lord had made a way of escape in answer to her prayer, when her way seemed hedged up on every hand. “The eyes of the Lord run to and fro through the earth, to show himself strong in behalf of them whose heart is perfect towards him.”

Little Mary's Hymn.

THE following incident was communicated to me by a City missionary, respecting a little girl of three years of age, whose name I shall call Mary Kay.

Mary Kay was, I believe, the youngest but one of a family of four. Her mother, who had been brought up in easy circumstances, had been deserted by her husband, which made it hard work to get food and clothing for the little ones. Poor children, what an unkind father, to leave them and their mother to get on as best they could! Little Mary thus had no kind father to pray with her, to direct her mind to Him above, who was willing to become her Father in heaven. He cared neither for them nor their mother, and if it had not been for the kind missionary, their case perhaps would never have been known.

How thankful, my dear young readers, you ought to be who have loving fathers and mothers to look after you, and to care for the wants of your bodies. But how very far more important to have fond parents who love and care also about your souls, and are anxious you should know our good and gracious God, who lives in heaven, whose love is far beyond that of the kindest father or mother on earth.

When the missionary had found out this family, and heard their tale of sorrow, his heart bled for them, and he proceeded to talk to them of Jesus.

Mary listened to him while he talked with her mother about her soul, urging her to cast herself, with her sins and sorrows, on Jesus. He then read about the love of Jesus, how he bore our sins on the cross; and then he told them all that God had thought on them, and sent his dear Son to suffer and to die for them.

Little Mary was very attentive, and listened earnestly to what the missionary said: and the thought that although she hadn’t an earthly father to care about her, she might have one in heaven, who would love and care for her, attracted her greatly. The kind missionary then took each of the little ones on his knee (for he loved children), and sang beautiful hymns to them about heaven, and of Jesus, how he left his home above to seek and win their love, and how, by believing in him, sinners may be saved, and become the children of God. Amongst the hymns sung, one which Mary wanted to have sung again was,

“I have a Father in the promised land.”

The missionary was thankful to hear her want to have this hymn repeated, and he sang it over and over again, so that she never forgot it. The Lord blessed the missionary’s conversation to this little child, and particularly that hymn. Perhaps her little heart was mourning the loss of a father’s love, and this hymn met her need. However that may be, when on the day following Mary was taken ill, she kept singing, all day long, “I have a Farder in the p’omised land,” and asked her mother to fetch the kind gentleman to help her to sing; but from some neglect, or not knowing where he lived, her mother did not fetch him. Day after day her cry was for the kind friend who taught her to sing, “I have a Farder in the p’omised land,” After two or three weeks’ suffering, disease gradually wore away her tender and delicate frame, but still did she ask for the missionary, and sing the hymn he had taught her: “I have a Farder in the p’omised land.”

At the end of the month it was evident that she was soon to leave all here below. Young as she was, she felt she was safe in Christ who died for her, and was going to that Father in heaven, and to that blessed Saviour who had loved her on earth. Previous to her death she called her mother, and in a faint, dying whisper said,

“I have a Farder in the p’omised land,

When my Lord talls me I must doe,

To meet him in the p’omised land.

I have a Saviour in the p’omised land,” &c.

“Dood-bye, mother; I am doin’ to be with Jesu s, and sing in the p’omised land.”

And then she quietly breathed her happy spirit into the bosom of that blessed Saviour who had so loved her, and whose precious blood had saved her forever.

And now, my dear children, would you not like to go thus to Jesus? Would you not love, like Mary, to sing in heaven of a Father’s and a Saviour’s love? Well, if you desire it, you must come to him now, believe on him now, trust in him now. Then you will be able to sing, with dear little Mary, from your heart,

“I have a Father in the promised land,

When my Lord calls me I must go,

To meet him in the promised land.

I have a Saviour in the promised land,

When my Saviour calls me I must go,

To meet him in the promised land.”

J. F.

Israel's Feast.

“With desire I have desired to eat this Passover with you before I suffer: for I say unto you, I will not any more eat thereof, until it be fulfilled in the kingdom of God.” —Luke 22:15, 16.

Lord! ‘twas thy heart’s desire,

Thine Israel’s feast to share,

Ere thou wouldst suffer and expire,

The nation’s guilt to bear.

Nor Israel’s crime alone

The mercy-tide must meet;

Thou didst for Gentile sins atone,

God’s counsels to complete.

Thus, to the faithful few

Reposing in thy name,

(Ah, to one dark intruder too,)

Didst thou thy death proclaim,

Beside the Paschal Lamb,

That night in shadow slain,

The antitype, the great I AM,

Foretells his righteous reign.

There badest thou farewell

To every link with earth;

There sounded nature’s funeral knell,

Ere thy new era’s birth.

Rejected of thine own,

O’er whom thy heart doth yearn,

Thou to thy holy Father’s throne

Dost in his time return.

No more may earth detain

The true Unleavened Bread,—

Her bitter herbs tell out his pain,

Who liveth and was dead.

No more thine ancient vine

Hath fruit, O Christ, for thee,

Until the kingdom, doubly thine,

Declared in power shall be.

Yet do thy words remain

In every widowed heart;

Thou Jesus, who wilt come again,

Our life in glory art.

Our Passover art thou!

We love to keep the feast,

Thy joy, thy peace, our portion now,

Though lowest we, and least.

Thine own exceeding grace

Rose all opposings o’er;

Thy blissful presence is the place

Where now our cup runs o’er.

Wrath’s awful cup was thine,

God gave it thee to drink:

Nor could thy filial love divine

Beneath his provings shrink.

“Before I suffer,” so

Thou spakest to thine own;

Ah! what our hearts can never know

Didst thou endure alone!

Thine offering to God

No finite mind can scan;

And yet thy name declares abroad.

Thy love to God and man.

Thy broken body, Lord,

Thou givest us to eat;

Thine own thanksgivings we have heard,

With thine, our musings meet.

The cup, —thy blood outpoured,

Thou bidd’st us all to take;

Forever be thy name adored,

All thirst therein we slake.

Thou reignest in our midst,

We live to reign with thee;

And, you celestial hosts amidst,

Thou still our ALL shalt be.

Thy covenant made new,

Established in thy blood,

Shall save thine earthly people, too,

And bring them back to God.

The heavens thou shalt hear,

And they shall hear the earth;

The seed of God, with holy fear

Shall feast in holy mirth.

Then, then shall earth rejoice,

With corn and oil and wine;

And subject wholly to thy voice,

Proclaim the glory thine.

Jan. 13th 1868.

"He said so."

WHEN the Emperor Napoleon the First was one day reviewing his troops, he let go the bridle of his horse, and in a moment his high-spirited charger galloped away with him. A private in the ranks saw the danger, rushed from his place, seized the bridle, and saved the limbs, if not the life of the emperor, who said to him, “Thank you, captain,” and went on. “Of what regiment, sire?” asked the soldier. “Of my guards,” was the reply.

Going back to his regiment, he put down his gun, and said, “Whoever likes may take care of that,” and walking across the review ground, joined the staff. A general looking round at hip, said, “What does that fellow want?” “That fellow is a captain of the guard,” said the man, and gave the military salute. “You are mad, friend!” “I am not mad; I am a captain of the guards” “Who said so?” “He said so,” pointing to the emperor riding along. “I beg your pardon,” replied the general, and recognized him at once in his new office.

“If we receive the witness of men, the witness of God is greater;” and the foregoing story is recorded for the sake of those who, while truly anxious about the salvation of their souls, have not received the “testimony of God” about “Jesus Christ and him crucified,” and who, consequently, cannot say, “We know that his testimony is true.” The Holy Ghost has convinced you of sin, and, in the depths of your souls, you own that you are “guilty before God.” You may have groaned beneath the load of your guilt, watered your couch with your tears; and when, in broken accents, you have tried to pray, it may have been as though Satan were standing at your right hand to resist you. You may, too, have searched the Scriptures again and again, and frequently listened to the preaching of the gospel; and yet, when you have heard that there is full and free salvation in Christ for the very vilest sinners who believe in his name, if you had expressed the thoughts of your hearts, it would have been, in the language of a weary, heavy laden sinner we once met with: “I do not know what you mean by believing;” and who, when the finished work of Christ was again put before her, replied, “Oh, if I could believe! but I don’t know how.”

Now does it seem strange to you that when the subject of our story heard the emperor call him “Captain,” he should so simply and fully take him at his word as to ask immediately of what regent he was to be the captain; or wonderful that when he was called “That fellow,” charged with being “mad,” and deridingly asked, “Who said so?” he should point at once to the emperor, and triumphantly reply, “He said so”? “Certainly not,” you say; “any other mode of action on the part of the soldier would have plainly declared that he had no faith in the imperial word that had been spoken to him.” Well, then, dear readers, how is it that when “God, who cannot lie,” declares in his word that “he sent his Son to be the propitiation for our sins;” that

“The atoning work is done;”

and that he has shown his satisfaction therewith by raising him from the dead, and setting him at his own right hand, you do not as readily believe his testimony as the man believed the saying of the Emperor Napoleon? Ah, why? Because you have supposed that faith is something more than simple reliance upon the plain statements of the word of God, and you have looked for that supposed something in yourselves, and tried to find the ground of your confidence in your convictions of sin, or in the depth and extent of your feelings and evidences. But this is to reverse God’s order altogether. What evidence had the soldier that he was a captain before he believed it? None whatever. No gold lace adorned his clothes; he had not received a single farthing of a captain’s pay; his commission even was not signed by the proper authorities. Doubtless after he had passed through the ceremonies of the War Office, he soon wore a captain’s uniform, but this followed his faith, not went before it. And so, dear readers, true faith is always followed by internal and external evidences, but until you have believed “the true sayings of God,” you will neither possess the one nor manifest the other. But the instant you listen to “the words of eternal life,” and drink in the wondrous truth that “Christ died for the ungodly,” and that you are welcome to him without self-preparation or any worthiness to plead, the full and simple belief of this precious fact will bring immediate peace to your sin-troubled souls; you will have power to silence, not only the accusations of Satan, but the ignorance of those who will seek to persuade you that it is presumption to say that you are saved; and when challenged to give “a reason of the hope that is in you,” you will point heavenward, and reply, “The mouth of the Lord hath spoken it.”

Such, dear readers, is ever the language of faith, and oh that from henceforth you may believe “the faithful saying that Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners,” as unhesitatingly as the man believed the word of the emperor Napoleon! True, the daring act of the soldier well deserved the honor which was bestowed upon him; whereas, were you to receive the due reward of your deeds, you could not “escape the judgment of God;” but this should only enhance — and were it not for the pride of your hearts it would do so — “the gospel of the grace of God” in your estimation, and cause you to give a willing ear to “the joyful sound” of present and eternal salvation in and by the Lord Jesus Christ. In the finished and accepted work of the Son of his love, God presents you a solid and an immovable rock upon which you may rose “in perfect peace,” the word which declares it is nigh you is worthy of all your confidence; ground your faith simply and solely thereon, and “you shall not be ashamed nor confounded, world without end.”

The Converted Infidel.

ABOUT eighteen months since, being requested to visit a young man in a consumption, I called, and found that he was a professed infidel. He wanted to know if I was a doctor; and when he found out what I came for, he told me he did not wish me to call upon him, for he did not believe the Bible. I spoke to him about his soul and eternity; but he said it was “all stuff,” and besides he was not going to die just yet. I warned him of his danger, and begged of him to read God’s Word; but he did not seem very well pleased with my visit. I left him, and called again in a few days. He then scoffed at the Word of God. I asked him if he knew that God, in his holy Word, declared that some should be wicked enough to do as he was doing. I turned to the third chapter of the second Epistle of Peter, and read the whole chapter to him. When I had ended it, he laughed at it. But I told him that guilty as he was, if he would seek forgiveness through the blood of Christ, God would pardon him; but if he died in his present state, and would not listen to the voice of God calling him to repentance, he must perish forever. I asked him if I should offer up prayer. He did not make any answer. I then knelt down, and prayed God to soften his hard heart, and to lead him to repentance.

But in a few days I called again, when he told me that he had been thinking about what had been said, and about the wicked being turned into hell. He said he believed there was a God, but he could not believe there was a place called hell, or a place of punishment. I read several passages of Scripture to him bearing upon it; and when I had done, he appeared quite horrorstricken, and said that he did not know that there were any such passages in the Bible. I conversed with him for a long time, and offered up prayer to the Lord to apply what had been said to his heart, and that the light of the gospel of Christ might shine into his dark mind.

I called again in the following week, and found him still more ready to listen to me. I exhorted him to come to Christ as a guilty sinner. He then fell back upon his good life, and that he had not done any harm to any one. I told him that Christ came to save sinners, and that unless we felt our need we should not come to Him, and of course could not be saved. I read to him from the Bible, that “all had sinned, and come short of the glory of God,” then offered up prayer, and again left. About three days after, his sister called upon me, to tell me that he had expressed a wish to see me. I went to see him in the evening, and he said, “I am very uneasy about my soul; I should like to be right.” I read Isaiah 55 to him, and exhorted him to turn to the Lord with his whole heart. He listened very attentively, and knelt down whilst I offered up prayer.

From that time he was always very anxious to see me, and light gradually began to break in upon him. He was led to mourn over sin, and as a guilty sinner to seek Jesus. For several weeks he thought there could not be any mercy for him; for instead of saying, as he did at first, that he had done no harm to any one, he believed he had done much to many. But at last he found peace. I believe that he rested entirely upon Christ for salvation. Although at times he was very much harassed with doubts, yet he had a firm reliance upon the promises of God. He appeared quite resigned to the will of God. His only wish to live (as he told a friend who went with me to see him) was that he might return to C―, to tell his fellow-servants that the religion of Christ, which he used to despise, was the only one that could afford comfort and peace to guilty sinners. He was often in much grief when thinking of the evil he had done to others by endeavoring to persuade them to become unbelievers. He was a little better for a few weeks, but he would often say to me, “I shall not get better; my stay here is not for long. I shall soon be with him who ‘loved me, and gave himself for me.’ Oh, how unworthy I am! but blessed be his holy name, he died for the unworthy. What a mercy is it that he afflicted me! Had he taken me away when I was in health, I should have lost my immortal soul. What love that he should save such a sinner — that such a wicked unbeliever should have an interest in his precious blood! I shall never be able to love him enough.” And another time, when I was reading to him the fifth chapter of St. Paul’s Second Epistle to the Corinthians, he raised himself up in the bed, and said, “Yes, this tabernacle shall be dissolved, but I have a building of God, not made with hands, eternal in the heavens.”

About a fortnight before he died, his brothers and sisters, and several others of his relations, having by his wish assembled in his room on a Sunday, he was by the help of God enabled to speak to them for above an hour upon the love of God to him. He said, “You all know what a great sinner I have been; but God has loved me, and Christ has died for me, and by his blessed Spirit I am enabled to rest entirely upon him for salvation.” He then spoke to them upon the care of the soul, and exhorted them to seek the Lord Jesus Christ with their whole hearts, and said, “Then you will be happy in this life, for there is no true happiness apart from him, and you will love one another, and I shall meet you all around the throne of God in heaven, never to part again.”

The next day I found him rather cast down. He said, “I have been very much tempted to believe that I am deceiving myself, my sins have been brought before me in such numbers, and so dreadful; but I do believe that my Saviour will not leave me.” I quoted to him James 1:12, Isaiah 54:7,8, and several passages from the Psalms, after which he seemed much more composed, and these fears were shortly afterward quite removed.

Shortly before he died, he looked at me, and said, “I know in whom I trust. I am upon the rock. Christ is my hope, and I would not part with it for all the world: no, not if I could be restored to perfect health again this day.” Such were the last words of one who had lived an infidel and a scoffer at God’s holy word. How wondrous is the grace that stooped to snatch such a one from well-deserved condemnation. How infinite is his compassion for the vilest of sinners!

Extracted.

The Crucifixion.

MOST of my young readers have doubtless read the Scripture narrative concerning the crucifixion. What a solemn and affecting spectacle does it present! Jesus, the Son of God, taken by wicked hands, and nailed to a cross between two thieves. He came down from heaven to tell of God’s love to sinners, and while here in this world, he “went about doing good,” giving sight to the blind, making the lame to walk, and healing many who were diseased. People were very glad to be thus benefited; but there were few, comparatively, who cared for him who in love and compassion thus ministered to their need; hence we read that “he came unto his own, and his own received him not” (John 1:11). “He is despised and rejected of men, a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief” (Isa. 53:3). His blessed ways of grace and love were in such marked contrast to those around him, and as “the True Light” he shone so brightly (exposing their evil), that they desired to get rid of him, as they supposed, by putting him to death. This the wicked Jews planned, and the Gentiles executed. It was early in the morning when they commenced their base and cruel purpose. They bound Jesus, and led him away to Pilate, who knew of no reason why he should be thus treated; but to please the people, he yielded to their will, “scourged him, and delivered him to be crucified.” Truly it is written of him, “He was oppressed, and he was afflicted, yet he opened not his mouth; he is brought as a lamb to the slaughter, and as a sheep before her shearers is dumb so he opened not his mouth” (Isa. 53:7). Having fastened his hands and feet with rude nails to the cross, they placed it in a hole made in the ground with such violence as to give the greatest pain; and during those hours of suffering and sorrow, they heaped upon him every insult and indignity which was possible; and we read “when Jesus had received the vinegar, he said, It is finished, and he bowed his head, and gave up the ghost” (John 11:30).

But while we see man’s wickedness had reached its height in the cross, and he is verily guilty of the death of Christ, yet there is another side to this dark and painful scene, which I desire briefly to dwell upon, and to direct to it your serious attention. Jesus the Son of God was thus, as the Bearer of sin, enduring the wrath of God, that the way might be opened for his mercy and love to flow forth. Great were his physical sufferings, and no one can imagine their intensity; yet were they little in comparison to the drinking of that bitter cup which brought forth from him those solemn words, “My God, my God, why least thou forsaken me?” (Mark 15:34,) upon the ground of which God can now accept the vilest sinner who believes in Jesus.

And now let me ask you what you have to say about the Lord Jesus, who died on the cross? You may perhaps think, had you been present when he was crucified, you would have acted differently to the vile men who, out of the enmity of their hearts, cried, “Crucify him, crucify him,” But let me assure you that your hearts by nature are equally evil: such the Scripture declares, “All have sinned and come short of the glory of God” (Rom. 3:23). “There is none righteous, no not one” (Rom. 3:10).

Let me ask you, Have you believed in God’s blessed Son? If you have, you are saved; if you have not, you are still in your sins, and solemn is your position. Nothing but the blood of Christ can remove the deep stain of sin and guilt which attaches itself to you as a sinner far from God, and enable you to stand in the light of his presence. You are lost and need a Saviour, such a one is Jesus; “He came to seek and to save that which was lost” (Luke 19:10). “Behold, now is the accepted time, now is the day of salvation” (2 Cor. 6:2).

Soon that loving Saviour, who shed his blood for sinners, will rise up from the place he now occupies, and then sorrowful indeed will be the condition of those who have rejected him. May you be led at once to look as a helpless, needy, lost sinner, to Christ, who hath said, “Him that cometh unto me I will in no wise cast out” (John 6:37).

(Contributed.)

The Conscientious Grocer.

To Young Disciples.

AT the time when Samuel Budgett, afterward called “The Successful Merchant,” first went into business in Bristol, pepper was laid under a heavy tax. In consequence, it was commonly adulterated; and in almost every grocer’s shop might be seen a cask marked” P.D.,” pepper-dust, a dust, looking like pepper, with which the pepper was mixed before it was sold. It had grown into a custom of the trade; and men who called themselves honest men did it without stopping to think, or to ask, whether it was right or wrong.

A cask with “P.D.” on it was also found in Mr. Henry Budgett’s shop. As soon as Samuel Budgett went into the firm his conscience began to grumble. That “everybody did so” was an argument which had no weight with him. If everybody did wrong, it became him to do right. “It was only a trick of the trade.”

The more he thought of it, the more he hated the sight of that ugly cask. It looked like a hypocrite, and he liked genuine things, men or goods. He felt sure he could not ask the blessing of God upon the use of this “P.D.” This decided him, and he determined instantly to obey his conscience. It was night. He went into his shop, rolled the cask down into an old quarry behind the building, where he stove it in, and scattered the “P.D.” to the four winds; and then his conscience was at rest.

Whether the tricks of the commercial world have decreased or otherwise since the days of Samuel Budgett, we do not stop to inquire; but the above contains a fine moral for those who have just commenced their Christian course, and whose desire is so to walk that they may have the testimony that they please God.

If you look around and examine the condition of what is generally, though unscripturally, called “the Christian world,” you will find that it abounds, so to say, with” P.D’s.”; that the doctrines and traditions of men are almost universally mingled with the word of God; and that the majority of those who call themselves “Christians” patronize the most worldly associations of Christ with Belial, without ever inquiring whether it is scriptural or not. Now as you wish to follow the Lord “with purpose of heart,” you must abide in the fellowship unto which “ye were called;” “let the word of Christ dwell in you richly, in all wisdom, and exercise yourselves to have always a conscience void of offense towards God and man;” and the more you do so, the better will you be prepared for judging “righteous judgment;” for discerning pure and simple truth from human adulterations; for rejecting all mixed principles; and for refusing to sanction anything and everything which the word of the Lord condemns. True it is that such a course will lay you open to the charge of bigotry and narrow-mindedness, and expose you to contempt and ridicule; but who ever lived godly in Christ Jesus “without suffering persecution “? No doubt in the estimation of those who sought their own ends and interests by carrying on “the trick of the trade,” the conscientious grocer was over scrupulous; too particular; and more nice than wise; but what effect would all that might have been urged have upon the man who, rather than sell that upon which “he could not ask the blessing of God,” was content to be a pecuniary loser, and did not hesitate to scatter the “P.D.” to the four winds? He could not be happy so long as he had anything in his shop that was not “genuine;” but after he had stove in “that ugly cask,” he possessed what money can never purchase, viz., a peaceful conscience and an uncondemning heart. And if you, beloved readers, will but walk in absolute subjection to the authority of the Lord Jesus, and at all cost and hazards, not allow yourselves to be drawn aside by the flimsy arguments of those who, for the sake of expediency and worldly reputation remain in connection with what is thoroughly opposed to the mind and will of God, the testimony of your conscience and the smile and approval of “your heavenly Father” will richly compensate for all the shame and reproach which may be heaped upon you, or for any temporary loss you may sustain; you will have more gladness in your hearts than those whose corn and wine increase, you will “grow in grace, and in the knowledge of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ;” you will realize that communion with the Father and his Son, which only those who possess “a good conscience” can understand and enjoy; and your path will resemble that of “the shining light, that shineth more and more unto the perfect day.”

And has not the straightforward act of “the conscientious grocer” a voice for those who, in their respective spheres and occupations, have to do or say or teach things which vex their righteous souls from day to day, or who are obliged to attend services on the Lord’s-day which are at utter variance with the truth, and which, were they free from the control of man, they would never attend again? Yes; and we would affectionately and faithfully ask such, whether, for the sake of the bread which perisheth, they will remain where they cannot “abide with God,” or whether, while confessing their past unfaithfulness, and waiting on the Lord for deliverance, they will rid themselves as quickly as possible of the” P.D’s.” which wound their consciences, rob them of the enjoyment of their peace and portion in Christ, and, above all, hinder their testimony for the Lord Jesus? If you are satisfied with being Christians you will doubtless adopt the former course, and try to quiet the voice of conscience by the example of others, or by the reasonings of those who love “the praise of men more than the praise of God,” and the ease of the flesh better than the self-denying spirit and precepts of Christ; but if you wish to be his friends and disciples, you will “cease to do evil,” and without stopping to think of consequences, or caring to be thought “fools for Christ’s sake,” or shrinking from the charge of being singular, or waiting till you have obtained other situations, resign those which you cannot conscientiously fill, even though humanly speaking you are dependent thereon for daily bread. Then will your hearts cease to smite you, from thenceforth spiritual prosperity will mark your career, and if you seek first the kingdom of God and his righteousness, “all necessary things shall be added unto you.”

Sandy Wright and the Puir Orphan.

EARLY in the month of April, 1734, three Cromarty boatmen, connected with the Custom House, were journeying along the miserable road which at this period winded between the capital of the Highlands and that of the kingdom. They had already traveled since morning more than thirty miles through the wild Highlands of Inverness-shire, and were now toiling along the steep side of the uninhabited valley of Badenoch. A dark, sluggish morass, with a surface as level as a sheet of water occupied the bottom of the valley; a few scattered tufts of withered grass were mottled over it, but the unsolid, sooty-colored spaces between were as bare of vegetation as banks of sea-weed left by the receding tide. On either hand, a series of dreary mountains thrust up their jagged and naked summits into the middle sky. A scanty covering of heath was thrown over their bases, except where the frequent streams of loose debris which had fallen from above were spread over them; but higher up, the heath altogether disappeared, and the eye rested on what seemed an endless wall of bare, gloomy cliffs, partially covered with snow.

The evening — for the day was fast drawing to a close — was as melancholy as the scene. A dense volume of gray cloud hung over the valley like a ceiling, and seemed descending along the cliffs. There was scarcely any wind, but at times a wreath of vapor would come rolling into a lower region of the valley as if shot out from the volume above; and the chill, bleak air was filled with small specks of snow, so light and fleecy that they seemed scarcely to descend, but, when caught by the half-perceptible breeze, went sailing past the boatmen in long horizontal lines. It was evident there impended over them one of those terrible snowstorms which sometimes overwhelm the hapless traveler in these solitudes, and the house in which they were to pass the night was still nearly ten miles away.

The gloom of evening, deepened by the coming storm, was closing around them as they entered one of the wildest recesses of the valley, —an immense precipitous hollow scooped out of the side of one of the hills. The wind began to howl through the cliffs, and the thickening flakes of snow to beat against their faces.

“It will be a terrible night, lads, in the Moray Frith,” said the foremost traveler, a strong-looking, middle-aged man, and a believer. “I would ill like to hae to beat up through the drift along the rough shores o’ Cadboll. It was in just such a night as this, ten years ago, that old Walter Hogg went down in the Red Sally.”

“It will be as terrible a night, I’m feared, just where we are, in the black strath o’ Badenoch,” said one of the men behind, who seemed much fatigued. “I wish we were a’ safe i’ the clachan.”

“Hoot, man,” said Sandy Wright, the first speaker; “it canna now be muckle mair than sax miles afore us, an’ we’ll hae the tail of the gloamin’ for half an hour yet. But, what’s that?” he exclaimed, pointing to a little figure that seemed sitting by the side of the road, about twenty yards before him; “it’s surely a fairie!”

The figure rose from its seat, and came up, staggering apparently from extreme weakness, to meet them. It was a boy scarcely more than ten years of age.

“O my puir boy,” said Sandy Wright, “what can hae taken ye here in a night like this?”

“I was going to Edinburgh, to my friends,” replied the boy, “for my mother died and left me among the freines; but I’m tired, and canna walk farther; and I’ll be lost, I’m feared, in the yown drift.”

“That ye winna, my puir bairn,” said the Scottish Christian, “if I can help it. Gi’e’s a haud o’ your ham’,” grasping, as he spoke, the extended hand of the boy; “dinna tine heart, an’ lean on me as muckle’s ye can.”

But the poor little fellow was already exhausted, and after a vain attempt to proceed, the boatman had to carry him on his back, and did it willingly, weary as he was.

The storm burst out in all its fury, and the travelers, half suffocated, and more than half blinded, had to grope onwards along the rough road, still more roughened by the snow wreaths that were gathering over it. They stopped at every fiercer blast, and turned their backs to the storm to recover breath; and every few yards they advanced, they had to stoop to the earth to ascertain the direction of their path, by catching the outline of the nearer objects between them and the sky. After many a stumble and fall, however, and many a groan and exclamation from the two boatmen behind, who were well-nigh worn out they all reached the clachan in safety about two hours after nightfall.

The inmates were seated round an immense peat fire, placed, according to the custom of the country, in the middle of the floor. They made way for the travelers, and Sandy Wright, drawing his seat near the fire, forgetting his own weariness, began to chafe the hands and feet of the boy, who was almost insensible from cold and fatigue.

“Bring us a mutchkin o’ brandy here,” said the boatman, “an’, as supper canna be ready for awhile yet, get me a piece a bread for the boy He has had a narrow escape, puir little fellow, an’ may be there’s some that would miss him, lanerly as he seems. Only hear how the win’ roars on the gable, an’ rattles at the winnocks and the door. It’s an’ awfu’ night in the Moray Frith....”

Sandy Wright, Christian-like, shared with the boy his supper and his bed, and on setting out on the following morning he brought him along with him, despite the remonstrances of the other boatmen, who dreaded his proving an encumbrance.

The story of the little fellow, though simple, was very affecting. His mother, a poor widow who seems to have been a believer, had lived for the five preceding years in the vicinity of Inverness, supporting herself and her boy by her skill as a sempstress. As early as his sixth year he had shown a predilection for reading, and with the anxious solicitude of a Scottish mother, she had wrought late and early to keep him at school. But her efforts were above her strength, and after a sore struggle of nearly four years, she at length sunk under them. “Oh,” said the boy to his companion, “often would she stop in the middle of her work, and lay her hand on her breast, and then she would ask me what I would do when she would be dead; and we would both greet. Her fingers grew white and sma’, and she couldna’ sit up at nights as before; but her cheeks were redder and bonnier than ever, and I thought that she surely wouldna’ die; she had told me that she wasna’ eighteen years older than myself. Often, often when I waukened in the morning, she would be greetin’ at my bedside, and I mind one day when I brought home the first prize from school, that she drew me till her, an’ told me, wi’ the tear in her e’e, that the day would come, when her head would be low, that my father’s gran’ friends, who were ashamed o’ her because she was poor, would be glad to own me. She soon couldna’ hold up her head at all, and if it wasna’ for a neighbor woman, who hadna’ muckle to spare, we would have starved. I couldna’ go to the school, for I needed to stay and watch by her bedside, and do things in the house; and it vexed her more that she was keeping me from my learning than that hersel’ was sae ill. But I used, by her desire, to read chapters to her out of the Bible. One day, when she was very sick, two neighbor women came in, and she called me to her, and told me, that when she would be gone to the Lord, I would need to go to Edinburgh, for I had no friends anywhere else. Her own friends were there, she said, but they were poor and couldna’ do muckle for me; and my father’s friends were there too, and they were rich, though they wadna’ own her. She told me no to be feared by the way, for that the Lord kent every bit o’t, and he would make folk to be kind to me; and then she kissed me, and Brat, and bade me go to the school. When I came out she was lying wi’ a white cloth on her face, and the bed was all white. She was dead, and I could do nothing but greet a’ that night, and she was dead still! I’m now traveling to Edinburgh, as she bade me, and folk are kind to me just as she said; and I have letters to show me the way to my mother’s friends when I reach the town; for I can read and write.” Such was the narrative of the poor boy.

Throughout the whole journey, Sandy Wright was as a father to him. He pitied the poor orphan; the love of Christ constrained him. He shared with him his meals and his bed, and usually, for the last half-dozen miles of every stage, he carried him on his back.

“An’ now, my boy,” said the boatman, as they reached the West-port, “I ha’e business to do at the Custom House, an’ some money to get; but I maun first try and find out your friends for ye. Look at the letters and tell me the street where they put up.”

The boy untied his little bundle, which contained a few shirts and stockings, a parcel of papers, and a small box.

“What are a’ the papers about?” inquired the boatman, “an’ what have ye in the wee box?”

“My mither,” said the boy, “bade me be sure to keep the papers, for they tell of her marriage to my father, and the box hauds her ring. She could have got money for it when she was sick, and no able to work, she said, but she would sooner starve than part wi’ it; and I widna’ like to part wi’t either, to ony bodie but yoursel’ — but if ye would take it? “He opened the box, and passed it to his companion. It contained a valble diamond ring.

“No, no, my boy,” said the boatman,” that widna’ do; the ring’s a bonnie ring, an something bye ordinar, though I be no judge; but, blessings on your head! tak’ ye care o’ it, an’ part wi’ t on no account, to ony bodie. Hae ye found out the direction?”

The boy named some place in the vicinity of the Cowgate, and in a few minutes they were both walking up the Grass market.

“Oh, yonder’s my aunt,” exclaimed the boy, pointing to a young woman, who was coming down the street; “yonder’s my mither’s sister!” and away he sprang to meet her.

She immediately recognized and welcomed him; and he introduced the boatman to her, as the kind friend who had rescued him from the snow-storm, and brought him safely all his journey through. She related in a few words the story of the boy’s parents. His father had been a dissipated young man, of good family, whose follies had separated him from his friends; and the difference he had rendered irreconcilable by marrying a poor but industrious and virtuous woman, who, despite of her birth, was deserving of a better husband. In a few years he had sunk into indigence and contempt; and in the midst of a wretchedness which would have been still more complete had it not been for the efforts of his wife, he was seized by a fever, of which he died.

“Two of his brothers,” said the woman, “who are gentlemen of the law, were lately inquiring about the boy, and will, I hope, interest themselves in his behalf.”

In this hope the boatman cordially acquiesced. “An’ now, my boy,” said he, as he bade him farewell, “I have just one great left yet; it’s an honest great, anyhow,” he added, as he gave it to the child, “an’ I’m sure I wish the Lord’s blessing on it.”

Eighteen years elapsed before Sandy Wright again visited Edinburgh. He had quitted it a robust, powerful man of forty-seven, and returned to it a gray-headed old man of sixty-five. His humble fortunes, too, were sadly in the wane. His son William, who had risen, in a few years on the score of merit alone, from the forecastle to a lieutenancy, had headed under Admiral Vernon some desperate enterprise, from which he never returned; and the boatman himself, when on the eve of retiring on a small pension, from his long service in the Custom House, was dismissed without a shilling, on the charge of having connived at the escape of a smuggler. He was slightly acquainted with one of the inferior clerks in the Edinburgh Custom House, and in the slender hope that this person might prove powerful enough to get him reinstated, had now traveled from Cromarty to Edinburgh, a weary journey of nearly two hundred miles. He had visited the clerk, who had given him scarcely any encouragement; and he was now waiting for him in a street near Brown Square, where he had promised to meet him in less than half an hour. But more than two hours had elapsed; and Sandy Wright, fatigued and melancholy, was sauntering slowly along the street, musing on his altered circumstances, when a gentleman, who passed him with the quick, hurried step of a person engaged in business, stopped abruptly a few yards away, and returning at a much slower pace, eyed him steadfastly as he repassed. He again came forward, and stood.

“Are you not Mr. Wright?” he inquired.

“My name, sir, is Sandy Wright,” exclaimed the boatman, touching his bonnet.

The face of the stranger glowed with pleasure, and grasping him by the hand, “Oh my good kind friend, Sandy Wright!” he exclaimed; “often, often have I inquired after you, but no one could tell me where you resided, or whether you were living or dead. Come along with me, my house is in the next square. What! not remember me; oh, but it will be ill with me when I cease to remember you! I am Hamilton, an advocate — but you will scarcely know me as that.”

The boatman accompanied him to an elegant house in Brown Square, and was ushered into a splendid apartment, where there sat a young lady, engaged in reading.

“Who of all the world have I found,” said the advocate to the young lady, “but good Sandy Wright, the kind brave man who rescued me when perishing in the snow, and who was so true a friend to me when I had no friend besides.”

The lady welcomed the boatman with one of her warmest smiles, and held out her hand.

“How happy I am,” she said, “that we should have met with you. Often has Mr. Hamilton told me of your kindness to him, and regretted that he should have no opportunity of acknowledging it.”

The boatman made one of his best bows, but he had no words for so fine a lady.

The advocate inquired kindly after his concerns, and was told of his dismissal from the Custom House.

“I’ll vouch,” he exclaimed, “it was nothing an honest man should be ashamed of.”

“Oh, only a slight matter, Mr. Hamilton,” said the boatman; “an’ truth I couldna’ weel do other than what I did, though I should base to do’t o’er again.... I have an acquaintance in the Custom House here, Mr. Scrabster, the clerk; an’ I came up ance errand to Edinburgh, in the hope that he might do something for me; but he’s no Terra able, I’m thinking, an’ I’m feared no verra willing; an’ so, Mr. Hamilton, I just canna help it. My day, o’ course o’ nature, canna be verra long, an’ the Lord that has aye carried me through as yet, winna, surely, let me stick now.”

“Ah no, my poor friend,” said the advocate; “make up your mind, however, to stay for a few weeks with Helen and me, and I’ll try in the meantime what my little influence may be able to do for you at the Custom House.”

A fortnight passed away very agreeably to the boatman. Mrs. Hamilton was delighted with his character and his conversation, and the advocate, a man of high talent and Christian benevolence, seemed to regard him with the feelings of an affectionate son. At length, however, he began to weary sadly of what he termed the life of a gentleman, and to sigh after his little smoky cottage and “the puir auld wife.”

“Just remain with us one week longer,” said the advocate, “and I shall learn in that time the result of my application. You are not now quite so active a man as when you carried me ten miles through the snow, and so I shall secure for you a passage in one of the Leith Traders.”

In a few days after, when the boatman was in the middle of one of his most interesting conversations with Mrs. Hamilton, the advocate entered the apartment, his eyes beaming with pleasure, and a packet in his hand.

“This is from London,” he said, as he handed it to his wife; “it intimates to us, that, Alexander Wright, Custom House Boatman,’ is to rire from the service on a pension for life.”

But why dwell longer on the story? Sandy Wright parted from his kind friends, and returned to Cromarty, where he died in the spring of 1769, in the eighty-second year of his age.

“Folk hae aye to learn,” he used to say, “an’, for my own pairt, I was a sixty-year-auld scholar afore I kept one meaning o’ that verse, ‘Cast thy bread on the waters, and thou shalt find it after many days.’”

“Be ye therefore imitators of God, as dear children; and walk in love, as Christ also hath loved us, and hath given himself for us an offering and a sacrifice to God for a sweet smelling savor.” In taking charge of the poor, perishing orphan boy, this Scottish Christian only did what it was his duty to do. Carrying him on his back for miles in the teeth of the storm, weary as he was himself; providing him with food and shelter at his own cost; and afterward, in spite of opposition, delay, and all inconvenience, seeing him safely to his destination, this dear old Christian was but following (though at infinite distance) in the footsteps of his gracious Master; nevertheless such instances of real Christ-like love and self-denial are, alas! so rare that it has been thought well to record this as an example to those young readers of Good News who love the Lord Jesus Christ.

Practical Christianity is at a very low ebb in these days, even much that is so called is nothing but active religiousness — that kind of zealous Pharisaism which “tithes mint and anise and cummin” for its own sake and to be seen of men. In seeking to avoid this we may fall into the other extreme (a very common thing in human experience), and sit down content with a kind of spiritual sentimentalism, which feeds on the most precious truths and enjoys them after a fashion of its own, but never carries them out into the practical details of daily walk, nor knows what it is to “love with a pure heart fervently.”

Sandy Wright was a Christian of another sort. He saw the lost child and he sought to save him. He was weary and he carried him, hungry and he fed him, “a stranger and he took him in,” friendless and he befriended him; nor left him till he had set him in safety among his own far-distant relatives, bearing him on over many a mile of moor and mountain and through difficulties which but for him, it would have been physically impossible for the fatherless boy to have surmounted. And the Lord honored and rewarded him even here, though he does not always do so. But he has said, “Them that honor me I will honor;” and sooner or later the reward will follow labors of love done for his name’s sake by those who love him and “look for nothing again.” Would that there were more Sandy Wrights among us!

The Dying Child.

A LITTLE girl lay dying;

They raised her, aching head,

And asked her, was she weary;

But looking up she said,

“No, I shall not be weary” —

(Such faith to babes is given) ―

“For Jesus carries little ones

In his own arms to heaven.”

Disciples of her Saviour,

Ye “little ones” of God,

Weary with sin and sorrow,

With the burden on the road;

Oh lean upon the promise

Thus to the feeblest given―

“The Shepherd bears the little ones

In his own arms to heaven.”

Our faith may oft seem failing,

And weak its strongest grasp;

But mighty and unwearied

That more than mother’s clasp,

As helpless as an infant,

To us her faith be given!

“For Jesus carries little ones

In his own arms to heaven.”

The Indian Chief's Appeal.

[The substance of the following story was really told some years ago at several Missionary meetings in London, by a North American Indian chief of the Chippewa tribe, who had come to England to solicit help, in the shape of books and teachers, to spread the gospel among his perishing countrymen.]

FROM forests ‘neath whose mighty shade my warrior fathers sleep,

With winds and billows wild and high, across the pathless deep;

O’er mountains whose eternal snows rise glittering to the sky;

By torrents whose proud foaming wrath rolls thunder-echoes high;

Where floods that bear your stately ships, in clear still founts are born;

Through vast and awful solitudes, dim, dread as winter’s morn, —

I come, a stranger lone, my friends, to England’s happy plains,

To bear into her hearths and homes, her palaces and fanes,

A deep voice from the perishing, a nation’s pleading prayer,

That she, from her o’erflowing cup some brimming drops

would spare.

The glory from my race has passed; despoiled, enslaved,

oppressed,

They are melting from their forest haunts like foam from

ocean’s breast;

They are passing to the silent land, they perish day by day,

Their souls unbathed in that red fount that washes guilt away.

Their lands are yours; your cities rise where erst their homes

were found;

Your fair fields smile on what was once their boundless hunting ground.

O nation of the mighty mind, the conquering heart and hand,

Twine with the laurel round your brow the peaceful olive

band.

The crest is fallen from our life, our sun of freedom set,

‘Tis yours to bid a brighter day arise upon us yet.

Speed, speed the glorious gospel’s trump the rolling seas

across;

Soldiers of Christ send forth to plant the banner of the Cross;

The lamp of God’s eternal truth in those far wilds to light,

Where weary eyes grow dim and fail, with straining through

the night;

And be ye strong in faith and heart; deem not their souls too

sunk;

See one whose lips of life’s pure wave have deeply, deeply

drunk.

My brothers, though of other race, in faith and hope the same,

Listen, and highest glory give to Jesu’s blessed name.

Born, reared in forests grand and old, no eagle on the height

Was e’er more proudly free and bold in royalty of might;

A chief among my brother chiefs, as hunter, warrior, none

Such trophies of a lion-heart from chase and field had won.

And not with blood of deer alone, my weapons keen were dyed,

O’er them the life of human hearts had poured its crimson

tide.

What reeked I then of love, of peace, of mercy, all unknown?

O’er my fierce spirit, pride and hate held mastery alone;

The sun, the moon, God’s holy stars, the spirits of the flood,

Of earth, of air, alike I served with rites and deeds of blood.

So passed my fiery manhood on, a dark o’erflowing stream

Of savage joys, unbroken by one higher thought or dream;

But blight fell on my fame’s full flower. The pale-faced

stranger came

O’er the blue deep, our heritage of mount and wood to claim;

And vainly strove the land’s doomed sons, they conquered,

and we fled;

We fled, when ‘neath their wondrous arms our chiefs and

braves had bled.

Outcasts and wanderers midst the shades that had our glories

seen,

Where we, as chiefs and princes free, for years untold had

been;

Then my spirit’s eagle-pinions drooped broken in my breast,

And my lion-heart’s high pulses sunk; I longed to be at rest

With those whose voices haunted me among the ancient trees,

And seemed to breathe on my chained life shame, with each

moaning breeze.

Dark, dark those hours! but light arose: a pale-faced teacher

brought

Strange tidings from the spirit land, of heaven, of hell, he

taught;

Of heaven, where rest the holy dead, for mortal thought too

fair;

Of hell, where sinners dwell with fiends, in utter blank despair.

I listened, and strange yearnings broke within my heart’s

unrest,

And hope, pale, faint, as eve’s first star, gleamed trembling

o’er my breast.

“That glorious heaven! oh, can there be in it a place for me,

An Indian of the Chippewa?” I asked him. “E’en for thee!”

He answered. “All are welcome there, for the Great Spirit

gave

His only, his beloved Son, filled with his life-blood’s wave,

A fount to cleanse the guiltiest soul; and all who in that name,

The name of Jesus, entrance ask, a welcome sure may claim.”

I left him, but my troubled soul was burdened with its sin;

The arrow to its mark had sped, and rankled sore within.

Like one of our own mountain deer, that feels the hunter’s

dart,

And madly flies o’er hill and plain from agony to part,

Till nature’s energies all spent, it sinks upon the earth,

And hears at hand some cool fresh stream dance by in rippling

mirth,

Yet dies of thirst, —in those glad sounds, I felt in my despair,

Heaven’s pearly gates would open wide unto the voice of

prayer,

Breathed in that strange sweet name of power; but the Great

Spirit heard

No tongue, I thought, but England’s own; Would that one

mighty word

Suffice, or must I perish yet? “Great Spirit, Jesus, save

Poor Indian sinner; Jesus, save,” I pleaded; but a grave

Seemed closing o’er that last bright hope, till at the white

man’s board

I heard again a fervent prayer, to heaven’s Great Spirit poured.

“God hears that English prayer,” I moaned; but when the

feast was o’er,

To the great God of earth and heaven the teacher spoke once

Joy, joy! it was in Chippewa 1 my father’s tongue and mine

“Oh, God can hear my Chippewa, he understandeth thine,”

I shouted, and away I rushed far from that festive throng,

And poured forth, in my own wild tongue, cries passionate and

strong;

And He who came to seek and save the outcast and defiled

Outstretched his arms of mercy wide, and clasped me as his

child.

His Spirit whispered, “I have heard, I love thee, be thou

whole;”

And, like a river broad and deep, peace flowed into my soul;

A stream, whose full flow faileth not, its well-spring filled

above,

From ocean depths of grace divine, of everlasting love.

My tale is told; I cast aside my battle-bow and spear;

I spread the good news far and wide. My brothers, I am here,

E’en I, a dark fierce heathen once — blood-stained, accursed —

now

A jewel in the diadem on Jean’s glorious brow,

To plead in prayers for words too strong, in grief for tears too

deep,

With you to save the perishing — my people o’er the deep!

True Christian, bold and faithful, hear this, and be thou

strong;

Think on it, weary pilgrim, as thou journeyest along;

Pale mourner, list; thy blinding tears ‘twill touch with rainbow

rays;

Weak trembler, thou of little faith, thy doubts ‘twill turn to

praise;

Frail child of earth, whate’er thy lot, whoe’er, whate’er thou

art,

Take from the Indian’s child-like trust, a lesson to thine

heart;

Thy praise, need, grief, fear, pour thou forth, in simple tones

and free;

The God who heard this Chippewa will surely bend to thee.

A. L.

The Early Taken.

A Little Tale for Little Readers.

I WILL tell you a story of a dear little lamb, whom Jesus, the “Good Shepherd,” gathered unto himself in glory. She was early brought to the Saviour, and she was early taken from this world. She told her companions that she sometimes fell asleep on these words: “Underneath are the everlasting arms.” She said she did not know how it was, but somehow she felt that Jesus was always near her. When seized with her last illness, and told that the doctors thought she could not live long, she looked quite composed, and said she could not love Jesus enough here, and that she should like to be with Jesus, and then she should love him as she ought. To her tender, watchful relative, she said, “I wonder you are looking so grave; I am surprised at it; for I think I am the happiest person in the house. I have every temporal comfort, and then I am going to be with Jesus.”

After a companion had been with her, she said, “Margaret quite entered into my happiness; she did not look grave, but smiled; that shows how much she loves me.”

When sitting one evening with her head resting on a pillow, she was asked, “Is there anything the matter, my darling?”

“Oh,” she said, “I am only weak. I am quite happy. Jesus has said — ‘Thou art mine.’”

Another day, when near her last, one said to her, “Have you been praying much today?”

“Yes,” she replied, “and I have been trying to praise too.”

“And what have you been praising for?”

“I praise God,” she said, “for all the comforts I have. I praise him for many kind friends. You know he is the foundation of all. And I praise him for taking a sinner to glory.”

O dear young friends, may you too believe in the Lord Jesus Christ, and then you will be prepared either “to depart and be with Christ, which is far better,” or for the Lord’s coming to take all his own into the Father’s house (John 14)

Would you learn two or three lessons from the death of this little girl?

First — It is of the utmost importance to come to Christ now while you are young.

Secondly — It is the only way in order to be happy in sickness or in health.

Thirdly — It is everlasting life.

And Lastly — A sure and certain entrance into the New Jerusalem above.

May you then, dear young friends, obey the voice of Jesus, “Come unto me;” delay no longer, for you do not know what a day may bring forth.

T. H.

The Shower of Rain

A Real Occurrence.

SEVERAL years ago, on one summer afternoon, a little girl about nine years of age was walking along one of the beautiful terraces in the western part of the metropolis. The day had been intensely hot and sultry, and in accordance with the weather she was clad in simple white. She tripped lightly and joyously along, for as yet she knew nothing of “the world’s vain joys, its temptations, toils, and tears;” every sunset gave her a promise, and every sunrise brought a blessing. Well, we must not pause in our little story to reflect on the happy innocence of childhood, too soon marred by the world; or to think how soon the young heart is sickened with the deceit and treachery it has to encounter; how soon the “not far from the kingdom of heaven” is made “of the earth, earthy.” Leaving all this, we must go on, and relate how the thunder clouds, which had for some time been gathering, presently burst and discharged, as it were, a continuous sheet of water, while the flashing lightning and roaring thunder added terror to the scene. The little girl’s thin attire could but ill resist all this. What was she to do? She bethought herself, there was no shelter near, nothing on the one side but a large garden; on the other, fine houses. “Well,” thought she, “I must not stay hesitating, I must go up to one of these large houses, although I dare say very rich people live here, and I must ask them to let me come in till the storm is past.” So she summoned up all her courage, and mounting a flight of steps rapped at one of the doors. It was instantly opened by a gentleman, who she thought looked like a clergyman. He had seen her from the windows, and asked her very kindly to come in and sit down. She did so, and he began to talk. She stayed till the heavy shower had quite abated, and was thanking him as well as she could for the shelter he had afforded her with such politeness, when he said, “he was very much pleased to see that she was not afraid to come up and ask admittance, and his prayer for her should be, that she might be led to take refuge from the storms of eternity in the blood of Jesus Christ.” Much else that he said has since passed from her memory, but those words have remained indelibly fixed upon it through many years of mingled joy and sorrow, and have been blessed of God to her eternal good. “A word spoken in due season, how good is it!”

If we believe in Christ, how watchful we should be, and how careful that, as far as possible, in everything we do, and in every word we speak, we endeavor to promote his glory and the good of souls! Many a little passing admonition in the street has been remembered, as those words will be, during a whole life, —the benefit derived from them eternity alone can disclose. And let none of my young readers despise such kind admonitions. Rather “let them not depart from them, but keep them in the midst of their heart, for they are life to those that find them.”

The Falling House.

SOME builders had been at work, excavating for a foundation for a large hotel. In making their excavation, they had got considerably below the foundation of an adjoining house, and through sheer inattention and carelessness, had dug so close to it as to leave it standing, so to speak, on the very edge of a pit. Saturday night came, and they all went home from their labor. On Lord’s-day morning the inmates of the house observed a crack extending along the ceiling of the top room on the side next the excavation. Little notice was taken of it at first, but as the day passed on it was observed to enlarge, and now and then a sound as of falling dust could be heard; or at intervals, a slight report like the crack of broken wood. These ominous signs increasing as the day wore on, alarmed the inmates, and a closer inspection satisfied them that their fears were not groundless. It was too evident that the whole side of the house next the excavation was sinking outwards, and at any moment might fall bodily into it, and bring down the entire building on their heads.

Dear reader, this is precisely the position of the whole world of the ungodly, and perhaps in a more special sense, that of professing Christendom. At any moment the trumpet may sound, and that which will be redemption to every believer will be the herald of destruction, of shutting out and shutting up to judgment of every one who, having heard the gospel of the grace of God, has rejected it. Ominous signs there are visible enough to those who study God’s word, and are led of his Spirit, and they increase as week by week passes by. The careless world is utterly unconscious of their presence, and yet “without excuse,” because warned from time to time by those who see but too plainly that judgment is impending. And even if the Lord should not come, any moment may be, as all admit, the last to you in this world; death may strike you, and then, if not a saint of God, where would you be? In the pit! For “it is appointed unto men once to die, and after this the judgment.”

But to return to our little narrative. Having ascertained beyond a doubt that the house was falling, the first thought of the inmates was to seek refuge elsewhere. There was no time to remove a single article of furniture; all had to be left standing just as it was. Safety to life was the first object, and all else must be given up. True, the furniture would be crushed to atoms if the house fell; thieves, too, might enter and steal while it yet stood; but to tarry was to risk that which was more important than all that the house contained, and therefore the inmates went away just as they were, to a place of refuge. Was not this the only proper course? Who can doubt it? But do men act with like wisdom in things of eternal importance? The Lord may come NOW; death may enter suddenly, and the unsaved sinner find instant and overwhelming destruction: —not annihilation, but eternal, never-ending doom. Yet tens of thousands refuse to “flee from the wrath to come,” or they dally with the momentous question, “halting between two thoughts,” until too late!

Reader, if you are not yet safe,” escape for thy life; look not behind thee, neither stay thou in all the plain.” Go at once, just as you are, to Christ; tell out all your heart, confess yourself a sinner, own your utter helplessness to say or do or think anything aright. He hath said, “Him that cometh unto me I will in no wise cast out.”

But there was another incident connected with “the falling house,” which we would seek also to apply. One of the inmates had, as was his duty, tarried to see all safely out, and was at last left alone. In the hurry of departure, a few little necessaries, indispensable under the circumstances, for the use of the family, had been forgotten. These he went upstairs to fetch. He was a believer in the Lord Jesus Christ, and feeling that it devolved upon himself to run the risk, he undertook it in perfect confidence, as a necessary duty, fully persuaded in his own heart that he was perfectly safe in the Lord’s keeping. Indeed, to express in few words what he did think about the matter, it was that the house could not fall while he was in it. This conviction, whether right or wrong, was so strong that he went about what he looked upon as his duty, without undue baste or any fear whatever. In the meanwhile the builder who had done all the mischief, having been informed of what had occurred, had arrived with a body of men and a load of timber, to save, if possible, the falling house. It was already night, and down in the excavation, the torches held by the workers flashed ever and anon through the crevices in the very foundation of the sinking wall: the crash of ax and hammer, mallet and saw, the shouts of the excited men, the thunder of heavy beams and planks hurled into the pit from the cart on the roadway, the falling debris, and that peculiar and even more ominous sound in the upper rooms, as of dust raining down between the plaster and the wall itself, all spoke of imminent peril to the solitary inmate. Oh what a scene will that be, dear reader, when the Church is gone, when this poor earth is given up of God for a time to judgment, when the crash of armies, the momentary triumph of the wicked, the rain of wrath, all mingle and surround the lonely remnant of God’s ancient people Israel; when “darkness covers the earth, and gross darkness the people,” and no ray of light breaks in, unless it be the lurid flashes of malignant fires from the very abyss itself! Would you be left in such a scene? Those whom you had loved, it may be, all taken out because they trusted in “the blood,” while you, a temporizer, a despiser of grace, are compelled to moan in inexpressible anguish of heart,

“They are all gone to a world of light,

And I alone sit sorrowing here;

Their very memory is fair and bright,

But me — what hope can cheer?”

Do be persuaded, then, to take refuge in the love of Christ while he is yet willing, yea, most willing, to receive you.

To proceed. Having collected what could not well be dispensed with, the solitary inmate of the falling house returned downstairs to the street door. It had been left a little ajar by the last person who went out, and he took hold of it to open it wider; but judge what his feelings were when on attempting to do this he found it immovable! Yes; the weight of the sinking beam above had fixed it as it stood, and no effort of his would move it.

(To be continued, if the Lord will.)

The Dying Child, for Sunday Scholars.

A SUNDAY-SCHOOL teacher thus describes a visit he paid to a little boy belonging to his class: —

“I found him,” says he, “in a dark corner of the room, meekly lying on some tattered rags; his years could scarcely number ten. Oh, what a subject to depict the power of faith and vital godliness! The softest beams of resignation shone richly out from those bright, lustrous eyes, while the poor face was pinched and sallow, shrunk and drawn by pain.... Turning to the mother, I remarked that the child seemed to be suffering much pain. ‘Yes,’ she replied, ‘but he bears it with all the patience of an angel. No word of complaint ever escapes his lips. The only time he cries is when I cry; he weeps to see me weep. Then he entreats me fast to dry my tears, and tells me he will soon be gone “far, far away,” where there will be no more sorrow, no more distress, no more pain; for Jesus will be there, and he shall be with him, happy forever. And, dear mother, he says, you are poor — you have parted with many things with the hope of making me better. When I am gone it will lessen your care; there will be more left for my brothers and sisters. You have been so good to me, pray do not weep mother; I am going to rest.’ Speaking to the precious child, I said, ‘Do you not suffer much pain?’ ‘Yes, teacher,’ he replied, ‘sometimes very much; but it will soon be over.’ ‘Are you not afraid to die?’ ‘No, teacher; Jesus has died for sinners, such as I am.’ But have you not been naughty and wicked before you were ill?’ ‘Yes, very often; but I have learned at school that “the blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth us from all sin;” and “if we believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, we shall be saved.” I believe, teacher, that he died for me. To die, is to be with him, happy forever.’ In this happy state of mind be continued for a few days, and then breathed his soul in perfect peace and resignation into the arms of the Lord. Previous however, to his death, he called his father and mother to the corner of the room where he was lying, and from his ragged couch he thus pleaded with them: ‘Father, I shall soon die, but before I go I want you to make me a promise. Father, I have often seen you come home drunk. Oh this is very wicked! Oh, do, dear father, leave of and go to Christ; do go, or we shall never meet in heaven.’ Turning with much affection to his mother, he said, ‘Mother, you never go to hear about Jesus on a Sunday. Do go; they will tell you all about Jesus. Do go! Will you not promise me to go?’”

Who could resist such pleading? Three months had nearly passed away, when this little narrative was written. The mother who had been regularly to hear the gospel, was by that time already under deep conviction, often exclaiming, with tears, “Oh that I were a believer!” Of her husband she stated that from the moment that his dying child addressed him as above, he who had previously been an habitual drunkard has never tasted drink, nor never once used the language he had been addicted to; and although this is, so far as it goes, only reformation, it is, we trust, but an outward indication of a deeper and more blessed work going on within. Where may the fruits of this dying child’s plea, applied by the grace of God, end? We doubt not in the everlasting salvation of both his parents. What a joy to him in that day! What a recompense to his teacher! What an example to those little ones who hear week by week at the Sunday-school of the love of Christ!

Have you, dear young reader, believed in Jesus like this poor little sufferer? Poor! nay he is rich, everlastingly rich; eternally happy, for he is “with Christ, which is far better” than anything this poor world can offer. And how? Only through believing in Jesus, whose precious blood, as the child declared with his dying breath to his parents, “cleanseth from all sin.” Have you thus trusted in the blood of Christ? If not, go to Jesus NOW. Go at once. “Do go,” as the dying boy said. You have heard and read of Christ so often: your neglect is worse, far worse than that of children who seldom hear about Jesus at all. May the pleading voice of the dying child follow you, and those two little words, “Do go!” echo in your ears till they lead you to Jesus.

And then when you know HIM, remember how this little boy pleaded with the father and mother whom he loved and wanted to meet in heaven; pleaded till he touched their hearts and persuaded them to “go and hear all about Jesus.”

Comfort in Sorrow.

THE posts went forth without delay,

And caused most bitter cries;

But Mordecai still could say,

“Deliverance shall arise.”

Nor was his confidence in vain;

For God, “the only wise,”

Turned what was meant for loss, to gain;

Deliverance did arise.

O child of sorrow, was it so?

Then wipe thy weeping eyes;

To thee, in times of deepest woe,

“Deliverance shall arise.”

Yes, till the storms of life are o’er,

And thou, above the skies,

Shalt dwell in peace for evermore,

“Deliverance shall arise.”

The Return of the Lost Son.

(For Young People.)

NEARLY thirty years ago, there might have been seen running down the street of a small village in the county of H―, a middle-aged woman, as though some strange thing had happened. Several of the neighbors called after her to know what was the matter; but she continued her course till she reached and entered a house which stands at the outskirts of the village, and which, from its having a windmill attached, is commonly called “the mill house.” We will leave her there while we inform our readers that the aforesaid property belonged to her husband, and that not long before this time they and their family had occupied it. The children were badly trained, and A―, the one of whom we are about to write, early associated with dissipated youths, and became wild and reckless. He was a constant source of grief to his parents, nor could they persuade him to abandon the scenes of gaiety into which he had been introduced, and of which he had become so excessively fond. True, there were times when he was completely wretched, and on those occasions he would listen to their entreaties, and promise for the future to remain at home. But no sooner was he invited to a party than he accepted the invitation; and though he was told that he would break his promise if he went, go he would, and go he did.

While thus pursuing his wicked career, he fell in with a party of soldiers, and as he was last seen in their company, it was thought that he had entered the army; and the supposition proved correct. Not that he took the trouble to inform his parents; nay, in order that they might not be able to trace him, he enlisted under an assumed name.

See, dear readers, what bitter fruits sin produces, even in this life. “Born like a wild ass’s colt,” A― not only grew up entirely independent of God, but “without natural affection,” and treated with contempt the words of admonition and the pleadings of love.

When A― joined his regiment, it was under orders to embark for India; and after sixteen years of service and suffering in that hot climate, during the whole of which period he never wrote to his sorrowing parents, he was obliged to be discharged and sent to England. Having no resources of his own, he was glad to bend his steps homeward, and at length he arrived at the house in which many of his youthful days had been spent. Those who occupied it soon dispatched a messenger to his parents, and at once, without shawl or bonnet, and almost wild with joy, the mother ran to meet her long-lost son, and conduct him to his father and brothers and sisters, all of whom gave him a hearty welcome. His wanderings were now over, and his parents not only frankly forgave him for all the anguish he had caused them, but ministered to his necessities till the day of his death.

Whether “the goodness of God” ever led A―“to repentance” we do not know; but the way in which he was welcomed home sweetly, though feebly, illustrates the joy at the return of a prodigal (Luke 15). If any of our readers, through the convicting power of the Holy Spirit, have come to themselves, and turned their backs upon the far country in which they did nothing ‘but fulfill “the desires of the flesh and of the mind,” and drink “iniquity like water,” let them come and prove how good and how gracious the Lord is. Fall into his open arms, and without an upbraiding word, you will be, as it were, pressed to his bosom, receive the kiss of full and free forgiveness, have the best robe, the ring, and the, shoes put upon you, feast upon the fatted calf, and in spirit hear the Father say, “Let us eat and be merry;” you will learn the baseness of your iniquities in the light of that grace which laid them all upon Jesus, who put them away by the sacrifice of himself; the pardon of your sins will be followed by deliverance from their power; and what your promises and resolutions never effected, what even the tears and persuasions of your parents and friends never accomplished, will be brought about by the realization of that love which passeth knowledge, and by the possession of that joy with which a stranger cannot intermeddle; and however long you may remain in the wilderness, he who, when you were “alienated and enemies in your mind by wicked works,” reconciled you to himself by the death of his Son, will, if you “count upon him,” “supply all your need according to his riches in glory by Christ Jesus.”

Wayside Ministry.

The Ostler.

AMONG the various classes of men engaged in the industrious pursuits of life, perhaps there are few who are less thought of, as to their soul’s eternal welfare, than ostlers and attendants in the stables of inns in towns or country villages. They are usually so occupied in attending to the convenience of others, that the Lord’s-day to them varies but little from other days.

Should this meet the eye of any who are thus employed, let me entreat them to “seek the Lord while he may be found;” and in order to afford them encouragement, perhaps a case which I can place before them, may excite some degree of interest, and stir them up to try and do likewise. And may the God of all grace make them partakers of a similar blessing!

I became acquainted with a youth of about twenty-two, occupying the post of an ostler, whose civility soon attracted my notice, and his general conduct gave me grounds to hope that he had not lived, as too many are too apt to do in such situations, altogether unconcerned about his soul, whilst pursuing his occupation. In this I was not disappointed, when I occasionally came in contact with him. But having missed him from his usual post, on inquiring, I found he was away from his place, in a very painful state resulting from an accident. Taking the earliest opportunity for going to see him, I found him in a state of great suffering, from a blow which he had received on his face from a horse, which had inflicted a very serious injury, and presented every appearance of being very difficult to cure, from the nature of his constitution. This fear was too fully realized. A sore, of a very distressing character, so affected the whole of one side of his face, both within and without, that it was with the greatest difficulty he could swallow any nourishment. He lingered in this painful state for more than a year. I was in the habit of witnessing the dreadful suffering under which he labored, and the distressing condition of his poor frame, until at length it became painful to look upon him. But though the poor body was thus brought into a state which might have given occasion for complaint, yet it was not so with him. There was much thankfulness that his life was not taken at the moment, and a composure which bore testimony to peace within; and never do I recollect, through his long and painful sufferings, to have heard a murmur escape his lips. He bore his affliction with meek submission to the will of Him who had permitted it, and waited with patience as to what might be the end of it, in his appointed time.

And whence came this calmness and patience? Simply from this. He knew where to look for comfort. He had been led to feel his need of and to seek for pardoning mercy through the Saviour’s atoning blood; and he could now look to him for support, and fully believed that if he took him out of the world, he would give him everlasting rest, where pain and suffering would be known no more.

Many were the refreshing visits which I paid to this interesting young man. We conversed together on the love of God in providing salvation for helpless sinners, and in calling them forth from the ways of ungodliness; and we prayed together for the continuance of grace to sustain him to the end of his trials.

And how came this once thoughtless person to be brought out of a state of darkness into light? I was anxious to know this, and he told me. One day, when he was about his ordinary business in the stable, he saw a piece of paper lying on the ground. He took it up, and finding it printed, he began to read it, and his attention was arrested. It was a tract, which probably some Christian had dropped, as “bread cast upon the waters to be found after many days.” As he read it, it pleased God to bless it. He saw his sinfulness, he believed in the blood, and he became a new man in Christ Jesus; “old things passed away and all things became new.” Who the person was that dropped the little messenger of mercy he never knew, nor is it matter of any consequence. The dropper and the finder, and the writer of the tract too, will, we trust, yet meet, and rejoice together before the throne of God and the Lamb.

But now another difficulty arose. He felt that he wanted instruction, and his employments appeared to exclude him from it altogether. So difficult was it for him to leave his post, that he could but rarely get within the walls of any preaching place. Yet I found his mind well stored with Scripture, and his views clear as to the only way of obtaining salvation; and his meekness of spirit clearly manifested that he had been taught in the right school, and drawn living water from the fountain head. He procured for himself a Bible, made a little closet for it in his stable, and availed himself of every opportunity, without neglecting his proper duties, for reading it, but more especially of every interval of the Lord’s-day. Thus, by a diligent and careful study of the Word, he “grew in grace and in the knowledge of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ,” and he found strength and support while pursuing the difficult duties of his calling. And when he came to occupy his bed of affliction in his humble cottage, then did he especially find the truths of that blessed book to be his support during the dreary months of his protracted sufferings. On these he rested, in the sure and certain hope of realizing the Divine promises in a happy eternity. He waited patiently “all the days of his appointed time,” until he obtained a release from a diseased and truly pitiable earthly tabernacle, and with simple confidence in redeeming love, he entered into the presence of his Lord.

Such is the short but interesting history of one who filled a post in which, it is to be feared, very many live without a thought beyond their daily business, and too often in a course of ungodliness and profaneness. But this tract reached even him. It is very deeply to be deplored that there should be any in this so-called Christian land, entirely prevented by their employments from hearing the preached word.

Should it please the Author of all good to bless this little narrative to any of the numerous class who are placed in similar situations to him who is the subject of it, to himself shall be all the praise.

But it is more especially as an encouragement to tract distributors that this little narrative is given. It is not often that we hear of the precious results of this kind of service. The tract is given or dropped, and read in secret; conviction (it may be) follows; days, weeks, months, nay the writer has known cases where even years have passed away, and the “good seed” has seemed, as it were, to lie dormant in the soul; affliction has come upon the reader, and then, if not before, the life-giving power of the word is witnessed. But he who wrote and he who gave the little messenger of grace perhaps never heard in this world of the precious fruit of their labors. Nevertheless, let us go on in faith, nothing doubting but that he whose Spirit works in secret will bless his own word.

There was no sound of ax or hammer heard when Solomon’s temple was building. A better temple is building now, and day by day living stones are added in. From the little hamlet where no man goes to preach the word; from roadside inns and gate-houses whose inmates are too commonly engaged at home from Lord’s-day morning until Saturday night; from solitary huts in secluded lanes far distant from every preaching-place, where toiling dwellers rise with the sun and lie down with the birds, spending their days from early childhood to gray old age in the fields, and too commonly so weary with the hard week’s work as to feel little able and less inclined to take a walk of miles to hear the gospel; from villages whose church spire points to a heaven of whose grace its attendants never hear, and where squirearchy and High-Church influence forbid the people to listen to the true preacher’s voice, —the living temple is growing. And what are the instruments? TRACTS. No human opposition can hinder these little winged messengers of mercy; no vigilance can shut them out. The writer has come up at the hour of twelve to a village school-door just as all the children were coming out. Calling them round him, he has distributed to a crowd of eager little hands, tracts enough, if the Lord so pleased, to convert the whole village, and bidding the children take them to their mothers, has had the joy of seeing the pure gospel of the grace of God literally flying all over the village to its remotest homes, as with eager feet the children have run to “take the book to mother.”

The Day will show the fruits.

Little Minnie.

“TELL me of Jesus, dear mamma,

One of those stories sweet;

Of how he cured the blind and lame,

And blessed the children when they came

And crowded round his feet.

“I long to hear again the tale

You’ve often told before,

How cruelly the Lord was slain,

And how the agony of pain

So patiently he bore.”

Her mother told how Jesus sees

His little lambs below,

And how he loves.to hear them pray,

And see them striving day by day

His blessed will to know.

“And Minnie, darling one,” she said,

“The Lord once more will come;

Then all the saints shall see his face,

And all who’ve known his love and grace

He’ll take forever home.”

“Will that be very soon, mamma?”

Dear little Minnie cried,

“I do so long the Lord to see,

And with the saints so bright to be,

Forever at his side.”

“I cannot tell you, Minnie love,

When that glad hour shall dawn,

It might be now this very day,

Or he his corning might delay

For many another morn.

“But he has told his people here

In readiness to be,

So that they may with joy arise,

And join their Saviour in the skies,

And there his glory see.”

“I’m glad you told me that, mamma,

For I’ll try to please the Lord;

I’ll pray to him his grace to give,

So that whilst here on earth I live

I may obey his word.”

Such were the words that Minnie spoke

Nor idle words were they;

She walked in meekness, faith, and love,

And her likeness to the Lord above

Grew greater day by day.

So brightly Minnie’s lamp beamed forth,

That some who saw it shine

Were brought to trust in Minnie’s Lord,

To love and keep his holy word,

And walk by light divine.

Thus time rolled on, and still the child

Serving the Lord was found,

And her joyful songs of praise were heard,

Like the tuneful warbling of a bird

Gladdening all around.

And ever at her work or play

She gazed toward the sky,

For she thought her Saviour she would see

In all his might and majesty

Descending from on high.

And if her little brother frowned,

Or to anger e’er gave way,

She softly whispered in his ear—

“You’ll not be watching, Willie dear,

If Jesus comes today.”

One day the merry voice was stilled,

And the small feet’s pattering sound,

And Willie missed his playmate, dear,

And all the house seemed dull and drear,

And hushed was all around.

For Minnie lay in her little room,

Struck down by fever’s hand,

And her mother sat beside her bed,

And softly nursed the aching head,

And the hot cheek gently fanned.

For many days was Minnie sick,

And the frail form weaker grew,

But the large eyes beamed with a lustrous light

As if they gazed on visions bright,

Hidden from others’ view.

And when she spoke her voice was low,

And her words seemed strange and wild,

Till one day as her mother prayed

That the Lord would heal her little maid,

She clasped her neck and smiled.

“I have been dreaming, ma,” she said,

“Oh, such a happy dream!

I saw the Lord upon his throne,

Bright as the sun his glory shone,

E’en now I see its gleam.

“I go to Jesus first, mamma,

Oh, do not weep so sore,

‘A little while,’ the Lord will come,

And raise your Minnie from the tomb,

And we shall part no more.

“For you shall join me on the cloud,

And together we’ll go home.

E’en now the golden harps I hear,

And songs of praises, sweet and clear —

Jesus, my Lord, I come!”

The mother pressed the little form,

But the soul had fled away;

For the Lord had called his ransomed one

To wait awhile before his throne

Till the dawning of “that day.”

The Power of God unto Salvation.

“SOME time ago, I was called to visit a young woman about twenty years of age, who was extremely ill, and who much wished to see me before she died. On my arrival at her father’s house, I found her heavily afflicted, and death appeared to be at no great distance. I sat by her bedside with the Bible in my hand, expecting to find her; as I have too often found others in similar circumstances, entirely ignorant of the gospel. I read a portion to her, and was most agreeably surprised to find that she was a believer and well understood the Scriptures. I asked her father how she became so well acquainted with the word of God? He said he did not know; she was always reading her Bible at every opportunity, and sometimes sat up all night for that purpose. He observed she was a very dutiful daughter; he had a large family, and she, being the eldest, and very industrious, was of great service to her mother and the younger branches of the family: the only indulgence she required was to be allowed to read the Bible when her work was done. But he could not account for her attachment to it, and it seemed very strange to him that she should attend to it so much. I asked if she was in the habit of going to any place for worship. He said she went sometimes; but was generally prevented from distance and the large family which she had to attend to.

“None of the family knew anything of the Scriptures but herself. I visited her during the whole of her illness, from the time she sent for me until she fell asleep in Jesus. Her faith was simple, her view of the way of salvation clear. She gave me many proofs of this in the various conversations which I had with her during her sickness. And how came all this about? By grace she had been led to take up and read the Scriptures. Her “heart the Lord opened, that she attended to” the written word, and by it she had been brought to a knowledge of the only true God, and Jesus Christ whom he hath sent; hereby was she filled with peace in believing, and the Bible was more precious to her than gold. Previously to her last illness she had enjoyed good health. It was in the prime of youth and vigor she had read her Bible and learned to love it; so that she had not first to seek God in this trying moment, but found him a present help in sickness and at the approach of death. The Bible had testified of Christ to her; she had found eternal life in him, and the Divine promises were both great and precious to her soul.”

S. M.

A Happy Death.

A Fact.

“Look unto me, and be ye saved.” —Isaiah 45:22.

“PRAY!” said a mother to her dying child;

“Pray!” and in token of assent he smiled.

Most willing was the spirit; but so weak

The failing frame, that he could scarcely speak.

At length he cried, “Dear mother, in God’s book

Is it not written, —Unto Jesus look?

I can look up; I have no strength for prayer: ―

‘LOOK UNTO ME, AND BE YE SAVED,’ is there.”

A Lamb of the Fold Part 1;

Or, a Brief and Simple Memoir of Florence K. Naylor

THIS dear and interesting child came under my care at the age of seven years, with a younger sister, named Blanche, aged four years. She had a remarkably sweet expression of countenance, and her disposition was most loving and affectionate. Unlike most children of her age, she was unusually thoughtful and inquiring, and would frequently express her great desire to know more. Indeed, young as she was, she thirsted for knowledge, made rapid progress in her studies and very soon left behind her those much older than herself. She would sit for hours poring over her lessons, while her schoolfellows were enjoying their recreations.

When I first knew her she was utterly ignorant of the way of salvation, yet manifested a great desire to hear and learn of Jesus, and would pay the most profound attention while listening to Divine truths. She appeared deeply concerned when I pointed out to her condition as a poor, lost, helpless, and sinful child in the sight of God; but when told of the all-sufficiency of the precious blood of Jesus to wash away all her sins, a ray of hope seemed to beam upon her soul. Though naturally shy and reserved, and particularly so on religious subjects, she ever sought the company of those whom she believed to be the children of God; and would express, in the warmest terms, her great love for them. Many times a day would she bring her stool and sit down beside me, or climb upon my knees, and beg me to talk to her about Jesus. These circumstances afforded me great encouragement, and led me to hope that the Spirit of God was indeed working within her, though, as yet, she had not full confidence and peace.

But oh how graciously and tenderly did the blessed Saviour deal with this beloved child! Gradually the light dawned upon her soul, and she was enabled by Divine grace to trust in him as her all in all.; and I would add, to the praise of his glory who called her by his grace, (Gal. 1:15; Eph. 2:5), that from that time until the day of her death, she never had a single doubt as to her eternal security. The sweet story of the Saviour’s love now became her constant theme, and her thoughts seemed almost wholly occupied with his blessed Person. So fully did she realize the preciousness of his love, that all her desire was to see him and be with him. She now loved to speak of death, and would frequently introduce the subject herself. A few weeks after her conversion, while I was alone with her one evening, we were conversing on the subject of death; when I asked her whether she should feel afraid if she knew she should die before the morning to which she replied, with perfect calmness and composure, “Oh I should like to know that.” I then asked her why she should have no fear, since death was such a solemn event. She answered with a smile, “Because I know I should go to Jesus; he died for me, he has washed away all my sins in his own blood, and only asks me to believe it; and I do believe; and besides,” she added, “if you and everyone in the world were to tell me I was not saved, there is something here,” (placing her hand upon her heart) “which makes me feel sure I am saved;” thus clearly testifying of the Spirit’s witness with her spirit, that she was born of God.

Her temper, which was naturally irritable, owing to her excessive nervousness, was a source of great trouble to her, and would often cause her to mourn deeply. On one occasion, having overheard her speak in a petulant tone to her little sister, who had displeased her, I waited an opportunity, and, calling her to me, asked her in a solemn manner if she thought Jesus ever spoke unkindly when he was upon earth. I then endeavored to show her the sinfulness of giving way to temper, the great need we have to look to Jesus for strength to guard against it, and also for grace to follow his example, who was meek and lowly in heart. She burst into tears, but did not utter a word; but in a few moments I missed her, and found she had gone to her room. She soon returned with a happy countenance, and, stealing to my side, looked up into my face, saying, “I have asked Jesus to forgive me for being so naughty, and I know he will, and I will try never to speak cross again.” She then threw her arms round the little one’s neck, and kissed her very affectionately.

One beautiful and striking feature in her character was her strict truthfulness. Never did I find her out in a lie, indeed she utterly abhorred lying, and I fully believe it was, in her sight, the worst of crimes. One morning, while engaged in dressing the two children, a circumstance occurred which greatly pained dear Florry. I missed some lozenges which I had laid upon the drawers the evening previous, and, on making inquiry, both children denied having touched them. I was fully satisfied at once that Florry knew nothing about them; but rather suspected the little one. Hover, upon taking the latter upon my knee, and talking very serious with her, she confessed that she had eaten them. I then left the room, closed the door, and remained outside, anxious to hear what passed between the little ones. I had no sooner gone, than Florry threw herself on her knees, and entreated the Lord that he would forgive her little sister, show her the sinfulness of lying, wash away her sins, and make her a good girl. I stepped into the room and saw her clasp the little one to her, begging her with tears, never to tell another story, but to love Jesus, and to try to be a good girl. Poor Blanche seemed much affected by her sister’s manner, and wept as though her little heart would break; and I trust her sister’s solemn and earnest entreaties were not utterly lost upon her, for since that time I have never known her to utter a falsehood.

When Florry was eight years of age, it pleased the Lord to give her another sister, with whom she was highly delighted; and on the second or third day after its birth, the children were sent for to their home. I accompanied them, and on arriving at the house, found the mother very ill; when Florry burst into an agony of tears, crying out, “Oh, my poor mother will die! what shall I do?” It was some time before she could be pacified; indeed she cried all the way back to school that evening, and the first thing she did when she got in, was to rush into her bedroom, fall on her knees, and beseech the Lord to spare her dear mother. She prayed also for the dear babe, that, if spared to grow up, it might become a follower of Jesus. She afterward seemed much comforted, and calmly laid herself down to rest.

I was particularly struck with the seriousness of her manner when at prayer, and when Jesus was the subject of conversation; for though, in her hours of play, she was uncommonly lively, and her merry, joyous laugh would ring above that of her playmates, yet, when sitting or walking with me, her mind would instantly revert to heavenly things, and she would ask me to tell her something more about heaven and Jesus. I never knew her grow weary of listening, but the more she heard, the more she wished to hear.

She once asked me if I thought there were as many rich people who went to heaven, as poor ones. “Why, my dear,” I said, “what makes you ask that question?” “Because,” she replied, “I should think rich people think so much about what they’ve got, that they have no room for Jesus.” I then read to her the 19th Matthew. “Oh,” she said when I had finished, “I do hope my mother will never be rich.” Ever afterward, when she saw a poor creature in the streets, or begging at the door, she would say, “I wonder if he or she loves Jesus; I hope they do, because then they won’t mind being so poor.”

Her anxiety for the conversion of souls, particularly those near and dear to her, was very great. “Oh,” she said to me one day, “how delighted I shall be when baby grows older; then I shall have a Sunday-school, and dear little Blanche and baby will be my scholars, and I can talk to them about Jesus. Oh! won’t that be nice?” The Sunday-school was one of her highest delights, and she would forego any pleasure rather than absent herself; and indeed her questions, answers, and remarks on what had been read, were most astonishing. Truly this dear child was taught of the Spirit. Whenever she was invited out to spend the day on a Sunday (which was very frequently the case), she would say, “I cannot come until the afternoon, as I do not like to miss school for anything;” and it was very rarely she could be persuaded to do so.

It was truly blessed to witness the anxiety she manifested lest she should be tempted to do anything that was displeasing to the Lord. One evening, on returning from a visit to her parents, I found she had been weeping; but it was some time before I could ascertain the cause of her grief. At length she again burst into tears, telling me that she had been asked to attend some place of amusement which she feared was a sinful place, but that she had refused. We then fell on our knees and gave God thanks for thus graciously preserving this young and tender disciple from the snares and temptations which surrounded her.

Whenever she heard of the death of any individual, her first inquiry was, “Did he love Jesus?” and if answered in the affirmative, would exclaim, “Oh, I am so glad; then he is with him now.”

I well recollect once — on returning home, after witnessing the death of a dear youth whom Florry knew well — I went up to her bedside, but she appeared to be sleeping soundly. I said softly, “Florry, dear H — is gone.” She immediately raised herself in bed; and with a look of great earnestness inquired if he was saved; and when told that he died trusting in Jesus, she exclaimed, “Oh, I should like to be with him!” On the day of the funeral of this dear youth, I took her with me to see him interred, and never shall I forget the effect produced upon her mind. She wept aloud during the whole of the ceremony, and continued to do so for some time; but at length when somewhat calmed, she looked up into my face and said with the deepest solemnity, “I wonder who will be the next.” Ah! little did I think that my next visit to that graveyard would be to witness the last remains of my precious charge committed to the tomb. Oh how wisely has the gracious God veiled our eyes, that we may not penetrate through the mists and gloom of an unseen future! That same evening, when alone with me, she said, “Oh I am so glad you took me with you this afternoon, I did so like to be there, and I could understand nearly all that was said. Will you always take me with you when you go to see a funeral?” I promised I would do so, all being well; and I fulfilled my promise, for her body was there with me when I next visited that cemetery, though the happy soul had fled.

We had some texts of Scripture printed in large type and hung near her bedside; and she would never leave her bed in the morning, or go to rest at night, without reading them several times over; and would sit up in her bed with her arm drawn lovingly round her little sister, and try to teach her to say them; telling her, at the same time, how very pretty they were, and that they were all about Jesus. I used often to think what a blessing this dear child might prove to others when she grew up, especially to her parents and sisters; but God’s “ways are not our ways, and his thoughts are not our thoughts.” He had a better thing in store for this precious lamb. His message to her was, “Come up hither, thy Father path need of thee.”

When dear Florry first came under my care, it was the full intention of her parents, who were publicans, to keep her at school for several years; but, owing to some serious losses in business, she was sent for to come home, just as she had reached the age of nine years. It was some time before I could summon courage enough to convey the sad news to her, fearing the consequences of such intelligence; for I well knew what a terrible blow it would be to the poor child. Many, many times had she expressed her wish that, if it was the Lord’s will, he would take her to himself before the time for her removal had arrived. But he, who doeth all things well, had ordered it far otherwise. Words would fail to describe the parting scene. Indeed I cannot dwell upon it without feelings of the deepest grief. Suffice it to say that, for some time, both teacher and child were almost overwhelmed with sorrow. Dear Florry clasped me round the neck in agony, as though it was her last embrace, and entreated me with tears to pray for her. “Oh dear,” she cried, “What shall I do without some one to talk to me; oh, what will become of me?” We fell on our knees and poured out our griefs and sorrows before that God who alone is able to give relief; whose ear is ever open to the cry of the distressed; beseeching him to preserve this loved one from the snares and temptations of a sinful world. When we rose from our knees she appeared much comforted; and on my asking her whether she thought she should forget Jesus, she smiled sweetly through her tears, and replied, “I am not afraid now, I know he will keep me.” She then asked me if I thought the Lord was sending her home to make her a blessing to others; and on my telling her I trusted such was indeed the case, she seemed perfectly submissive.

It was with great difficulty that I packed up her clothes, and the dear child wept much the whole of the time. I accompanied her home; then bidding her look to Jesus, and tell him all her troubles, I left her. Oh, how deeply did I sympathies with the dear child. Surely nothing but the grace of God could have supported me under the trial. Nothing but the sweet and comforting assurance that his grace was sufficient for all circumstances. To leave that dear little one in the very midst of sin and blasphemy, surrounded by a godless world, oh, what but the mighty power of God could have upheld me in such an hour! It was not many days before she was again at school, telling me that she could not stay away. I took her with me to visit a friend in the country, and during our walk we had sweet conversation tether. She walked very silently for some time, and appeared much cast down; till at length she said in a sorrowful tone, “I used to wonder what you meant when I heard you call this world a wilderness, for I always felt so happy but I have found out that it is a wilderness, for I am so very unhappy. I cry myself to sleep almost every night, though I try not to let mother see, because it would trouble her; and I know she can’t help it. She never liked a public-house: she says they are such naughty places. Oh, how I long for Jesus to take me home!” I lifted up my heart to the Lord, and committed the dear one to his care, entreating him to remove her from the evil, if he saw fit; but to give me grace to say from my heart, “Thy will, O God, not mine be done.” A few days after this interview, I learned from her mother that she had been talking very seriously to the servant girl. It appeared that this girl had been saying or doing something that had grieved dear Florry, she knowing it to be very sinful; and that she had told her she would not go to heaven. Upon this the girl sharply replied, “I shall get to heaven as well as you; I never did such and such things.” “But,” said the child, “We have all sinned;” upon which the girl again made answer something to this effect; “If I attend a place of worship, read my Bible, and say my prayers every day, I shall stand as good a chance as any of you.” Dear Florry looked deeply concerned, while she answered meekly, “There is but one way to get to heaven, and that is by believing in Jesus Christ.” The girl made no reply; but who knows but that that little word may be brought home to her at some future time? Surely, “Out of the mouths of babes and suckling’s thou hast perfected praise.”

(To be continued, if the Lord will.)

Scenes in the Isle of Wight, The Prayers of a Mother Answered.

Ellen’s Conversion, Illness, and Peaceful Departure.

ELLEN LOUISA J., the subject of this brief memoir was the child of Christian parents, who, up to the age of eleven years gave no evidence of any real concern for her soul. At this time she was taken to hear a lecture on the Lord’s coming; in connection with other striking remarks, it was observed that the seed bag may be nearly empty, when the word, the Gospel of Grace would no longer be presented; hence the importance of accepting Christ without delay. This produced no apparent effect at the time, and on the following Lord’s-day after she had retired to rest, her mamma (who had been praying earnestly for her conversion) asked her if she remembered what had been said in reference to the seed bag, and dwelt upon the solemnity of her position, if the seed were not received into her heart ere the Lord came, to be left behind for judgment! She then prayed with her, and in the confidence of faith looked up to him who alone can bless his own Word, to make it effectual in the salvation of our soul.

A few days elapsed, when her mamma again asked her if she had thought any more on the subject, and prayed that she might not find peace till she had found it in Jesus. Dear Ellen (who wept bitterly) replied, “I have been very unhappy through the night, those words, ‘Prepare to meet thy God,’ were continually sounding in my ears.” The next morning she arose early, having had but little sleep through the deep exercise of her soul, and calling the servant (who, knowing her unhappiness the previous night, was struck with her altered appearance and manner), she exclaimed, “O Fanny, I am so happy! My sins are all washed away through the blood of Jesus.” She then went to her parents’ room. “O mamma, my sins are all gone,” she said; “I do believe in Jesus.”

On asking her how she knew this, she replied, “The Scriptures say that ‘whosoever believeth in Jesus hath everlasting life,’ and I do believe.” The good seed had fallen into soil prepared by him through whose power alone it can be made to germinate, she saw herself by nature hopelessly ruined; hence, knew, upon the authority of God’s word, that, not only her sins were blotted out, but that she had “passed from death unto life.” Shortly after this she expressed a desire to “Break bread,” in remembrance of him who had saved her. She was baptized, and received into fellowship with the saints gathered together in the Lord’s name.

There was nothing remarkable in her Christian life, she was very retiring, but her quiet, exemplary walk, combined with her genial disposition and sweet amiability of character, won the affection of all who knew her. In the autumn of last year, unfavorable symptoms appeared as to her health, but nothing to awaken apprehension of danger: however, a few weeks only elapsed when disease of the lungs discovered itself, which being intimated to her, did not create any anxiety or alarm; she was kept calm and peaceful, and as her strength abated., her soul became more bright and joyous, while her confidence in God’s love and the foundation on which she rested were unshaken. The disease made rapid progress during the last few weeks of her stay in the body, but her peace remained unbroken. To her relatives, as well as to those who visited her, she expressed her joy and satisfaction in having Christ as her eternal portion, with the unclouded assurance that her exit from the frail, suffering tabernacle would be her entrance into his presence. To her mamma, who asked her if she had any doubts, she replied, “Not a doubt or a fear, the weaker I am the happier I am, and the deeper my joy.” Her nights were often disturbed through want of sleep; on one occasion, her mamma prayed that she might in a very special way realize the Lord’s presence as her companion through the night; and the next morning she said, “I never knew him so precious.” At another time when prayer was made that she might get sleep, “I have not had a dream tonight.” Her deep interest for those of the family who were still unsaved was very striking, and her desire and prayer was for their conversion. She spoke with delight as to the reality of the meetings which it had been her privilege to attend; and also of the preciousness of the truth to which she had listened, expressing more especially her enjoyment of a paper which was read to her from “Things New and Old,” entitled, “Christian life, what is it?”

Having expressed a desire to see me, I went some few hours previous to her departure. On entering the room where she lay, I observed her eyes (which were fastened upon me) with the pallor of her cheeks, indicating that the end of her pilgrim course was near. To her sorrowing papa who was standing near, I mentioned it and inquired in a low tone of voice, if she was conscious, when to my surprise, she herself replied, “Oh yes, I am perfectly conscious.” I remarked, “You are going home?” “Yes,” she said, “going home.” “We shall all soon meet there — all is bright there.” To which she again responded, “All is bright there;” at the same time giving utterance to the ground of her confidence before God: “Resting on Jesus, not the shadow of a doubt.” After repeating those words to her, “Fear not, I am thy God, I will be with thee;” adding, “He will be with you to the end,” she asked me to pray with her, which I did, commending her especially to the Lord’s tender care, and asking him that she might have a peaceful, joyous translation from the suffering body into his presence. She then pressed my hand as well as her feeble strength would admit, and I bade her good-bye. The deep joy, the unruffled peace, the unwavering confidence, to which she gave expression, and which shone so brightly in her countenance, are indelibly engraved upon my memory.

The same evening she became somewhat restless, but no immediate danger was apprehended. About eleven o’clock she asked her papa (who had arranged to remain with her the first part of the night) to change her position, and having done so, she gently and peacefully “fell asleep,” in the twentieth year of her age.

“Absent from the body, present with the Lord.” On the following Tuesday, her remains were interred in the Newport Cemetery, there “waiting the adoption, the redemption of the body.”

“Lord Jesus, come!

Earth’s shadows chase away;

Haste the bright, cloudless day:

Wake from the grave thine own;

Receive thy pilgrims home;

Lord Jesus, come!”

In closing this brief history of our beloved young sister, let me ask the reader whether or not he has the same blessed certainty as to the future which she had? Christ, in all the perfectness of his work, was the resting-place of her faith, hence her peace and joy. Are you satisfied with him? have you accepted him? if this be true of you, happy are you; but if otherwise, how sad your condition! It may be you are attempting by your own exertions, to fit yourself for God’s presence; if so, how self-deluded — how infatuated! What saith the Scripture? “Without faith it is impossible to please God” (Heb. 11:6). “By the deeds of the law shall no flesh be justified in his sight” (Rom. 3:20). Let me then urge you with all earnestness and affection to look away from self as incapable of doing anything to merit his favor. God in his word presents his own perfect remedy. “The blood of Jesus Christ his Son cleanseth from all sin” (1 John 1:7). Nothing but faith in that blood can cleanse you, and bring you without spot to God; any other basis must prove insecure and worthless. May your eyes be opened to the discovery of where you are, and what you are; all here is uncertainty. “Behold, now is the accepted time; behold, now is the day of salvation” (2 Cor. 6:2). May God in the riches of his grace give you at once to accept of Christ, who still says, “Him that cometh unto me, I will in no wise cast out” (John 6:37). He is of God, to all who believe, “made wisdom, righteousness, sanctification, and redemption” (1 Cor. 1:30).

J. M. D.

The Little Blind Girl.

LET me tell you who was the happiest child I ever saw. She was a little girl, whom I once met travelling in a coach. We were both going on a journey to London, and we traveled a great many miles together. She was only eight years old, and was quite blind. She had never been able to see at all. She had never seen the sun and the stars and the sky and the grass and the flowers and the trees and the birds and all those pleasant things which you see every day of your lives — but still she was quite happy.

She was by herself, poor little thing! She had no friends or relations to take care of her on her journey, and be kind to her, but she was quite happy and content. She said, when she got into the coach, “Tell me how many people there are in the coach, for I am quite blind and can see nothing.” A gentleman asked her if she were not afraid. “No,” she said, “I am not frightened. I have traveled before, and I trust in God, and people are always very kind to me.”

But I soon found out the reason why she was so happy; and what do you think it was? She loved Jesus Christ, and Jesus Christ loved her; she had sought Jesus Christ, and had been found of him.

I began to talk to her about the Bible, and I soon found that she knew a great deal about it. She went to a school where the mistress used to read the Bible to her; and she was attentive, and had remembered what her mistress had read.

You cannot think how many things in the Bible this poor little blind girl knew. I only wish that every grown up person in England knew as much as she did. But I must try and tell you some of them.

She talked to me about sin; how it first came into the world, when Adam and Eve ate the forbidden fruit, and how it was to be seen everywhere now. “Oh,” she said, “there are no really good people. The very best people in the world have many sins every day, and I am sure we all of us waste a great deal of time, if we do nothing else wrong. Oh, we are all such sinners! There is nobody who has not sinned a great many sins.”

And then she talked about Jesus Christ. She told me about his agony in the garden of Gethsemane; about his sweating drops of blood; about the soldiers nailing him to the cross; about the spear piercing his side, and blood and water coming out. “Oh!” she said, “how very good of him to die for us, —and such a cruel death! How good he was to suffer so for our sins!”

And then she talked about wicked people. She told me she was afraid there were a great many in the world, and it made her very unhappy to hear how many of her schoolfellows and acquaintances went on. “But,” she said, “I know the reason why they are so wicked; it is because they do not believe in Jesus.”

I asked her what part of the Bible she liked best. She told me she liked all the history of Jesus Christ, but the chapters she was most fond of were the last three chapters of the book of Revelation. I had a Bible with me, and I took it out and read those chapters to her as we went along.

When I had done, she began to talk about heaven. “Think,” she said, “how nice it will be to be there! There will be no more sorrow nor crying nor tears. And then Jesus Christ will be there, for it says, The Lamb is the light thereof,’ and we shall always be with him; and besides this, ‘There shall be no night there;’― ‘they need no candle, neither light of the sun.’”

Just think of this poor little blind girl. Think of her taking pleasure in talking of Jesus Christ. Think of her rejoicing in the hope of heaven, where there shall be no sorrow nor night.

Dear children, are you as happy and as cheerful as she was? You are not blind, you have eyes, and can run about and see everything, and go where you like, and read as much as you please to yourselves. But are you as happy as this little blind girl? Oh! if you wish to be happy in this world, remember my advice today. Do as the little blind girl did. Love Jesus Christ, and he will love you; seek him early, and you shall find him.

J. C. R.

He lives who lives to God alone,

And all are dead beside;

For other source than God is none

Whence life can be supplied.

To live to God is to requite

His love as best we may:

To make His precepts our delight,

His promises our stay.

The Garret Home.

For the Young.

A GENTLEMAN was one day visiting some destitute families in one of the poorest parts of London. After climbing a number of stairs, which led to the top of one of the houses, he observed a ladder leading to a door close upon the slates. He thought it most unlikely that any living being would be found living there, but in order to satisfy himself, he resolved on ascending the ladder. On reaching the door he found it so low, that he was obliged to stoop before he could enter. “Is there any one here?” he inquired.

“Come in,” answered a feeble voice.

He entered, and found a little boy the solitary tenant of this wretched home. There was no bed — no furniture of any kind. Some straw and shavings in one corner formed the poor little fellow’s seat by day and his couch by night.

“Why are you here?” inquired the kind visitor. “Have you a father?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Have you a mother?”

“No, sir; mother is in the grave.”

“Where is your father? You must surely weary very much for his coming home in this dark, solitary place.?”

“No, sir,” replied the boy sorrowfully. “My father gets drunk. He used to send me out to steal, and whatever I stole he spent in drinking.”

“Does he not make you do so still?”

“I went,” replied the boy, “to a school where I was told about heaven and hell — that Jesus Christ came to save sinners; and I believed on him, and resolved, from that time, I would steal no more. Now,” continued the little sufferer, “my father himself steals, and then gets tipsy; and then he gets angry at me, and is cruel to me, because I will no longer steal.”

“Poor little boy!” said the gentleman, deeply interested in the sad history. “I am sorry indeed for you. You must feel very lonely here.”

“No,” said the other with a smile on his face; “I am not alone. God is with me; Christ is with me. I am not alone!”

The gentleman took out his purse and gave him a small trifle, promising that he would come back again and see him on the morrow.

“Stop!” said the little fellow, as his kind visitor was preparing to go down the ladder, “I can sing.” And so saying, he commenced, in simple strains, the little hymn with which he loved to cheer his solitude: —

“Gentle Jesus, meek and mild,

Look upon a little child.”

The gentleman was touched with the tale of distress, and the character of the desolate child; and next day he told the case to a lady he knew would feel interested in him. The lady requested that he would kindly accompany her to the boy’s dwelling, to which he readily consented. Taking along with her a bundle of clothes which might be useful to him, they made their way together up the dark stairs of the house, till they reached the ladder. On ascending the steps and coming to the door, they knocked; but there was no reply they knocked again; still no reply! Again; but still no voice as before, calling “Come in.” The gentleman opened the door. The bed, the straw, the shavings were just as he had left them. The body was there, too; but he was DEAD! The boy lay on the bed of straw; but the spirit had fled away to Jesus, and everlasting rest.

The Sewer on Fire.

ON the Saturday that the memorable fire broke out at Cotton’s Wharf, near London Bridge, a lighter-man was navigating a sailing barge, of which he was captain, some distance down the river, when his attention was drawn to the heavens, which appeared as if on fire. The thought instantly occurred to him that it must be the reflection of some great conflagration. Knowing that on such occasions in London there are often opportunities of getting sums of money, he ordered his mate to lower the foresail, brail up the mainsail, and let go the anchor. This being done, he hurried to the shore, where, after getting some drink, and settling an old grievance with a navvy by a fight, he hastened to London Bridge. His first thought of the unmistakable evidences of a terrible fire was the opportunities it afforded to himself; no compassion for and no sympathy with the sufferers, whoever they might be.

How true is the Divine description of man’s wretched condition by nature, “hateful and hating one another” (Titus 3:3). Drinking and fighting, he made his way to London Bridge, and had no sooner reached it than he observed that the watermen were busily engaged, not in helping to extinguish a conflagration by which numbers might be ruined and hundreds cast out of employment, but in taking boat-loads of passengers to see the fire, the terrible character of which was more fully visible from the river than the shore. Eager to share in the profits of this employment, he turned his steps back over London Bridge, to Old Swan Pier, where he found, and at once took possession of, another man’s boat, and as quickly as possible rowed to the steps, crying aloud, “A shilling a head to see the fire.” The boat’s head had no sooner touched the steps than old and young, men and women, thieves and harlots, jumped into her, until no more could be received, and amid oaths and curses, blasphemous and ribald jests, were taken to “see the fire.” What a scene! the flames towering to heaven, the very water itself seeming to be on fire — (for the large quantities of blazing fat and oil floating on the surface gave it that appearance); the shouts of the firemen, the yells of the excited rabble, the unceasing rush and roar of the flames, the ominous pant and hiss of the steam fire-engines, the mocking laughter and horrible language of numberless boatloads of some of the vilest that London contains, might well justify the exclamation of one young woman present on the occasion, “It seemed as if hell itself was let loose!”

Let those who say that “the proper study of mankind is man,” study man as he appeared on the river Thames on this the first night of the fire at Cotton’s Wharf, and then turn and consider HIM who, “knowing what was in man” (John 2:25), could and did “die for the ungodly” (Rom. 5:6). Oh how it magnifies his wondrous love, to think that, seeing the untold depth of moral pollution man is in, the desperate wickedness of his nature and his ways, he should come to be “the Saviour of the world!” (1 John 4:14).

But to proceed: two-thirds of the night were spent in this work. Having made a good round sum of money, our hero sent the boat adrift, not even deigning to restore it to the place he had taken it from, and then hurried to the Water-man’s Arms, where he spent the remainder of the night in drunkenness.

Ten o’clock on Sunday morning found him standing in Tooley Street, without a penny, with parched lips and aching head and blood-shot eyes, and a starving wife and child at home for whose welfare he cared nothing. Truly “the way of transgressors is hard” (Prov. 13:15)— hard in their own experience, hard indeed toward others.

While standing in the street, a young companion of his, a thief by profession, came up to him, and, calling him by his nickname, inquired if he had heard of “the fat making,” and then proceeded to inform him that there were three or four warehouses among the rest on fire which were filled with tubs of Russian tallow, and that one of the sewer men had told him that the melted fat had run into the sewer, where, coming into contact with the water, it had congealed in some places in masses of three or four feet in thickness.

“Do you know where to sell it if we get some?” inquired the young thief.

“Yes,” replied the waterman; “come along with me.” A man who bought stolen property was soon found, and from him they obtained lanterns, sacks, a false key to open the sewer grating with, and a promise of payment when they should bring the spoil. Four others joined them in the dangerous enterprise, and at the early hour of three o’clock in the morning, when the streets were silent and few men about, they wended their way to a back lane in the Borough, where a grating was opened by means of their false key, and they descended into the sewer. Arriving at the bottom of the iron ladder, they turned into an archway. For some distance they proceeded dryshod, but suddenly the foremost man plunged down a step into some water, and cried out, “Hold on, here is water.” “If you are afraid, go home and die,” was the response, accompanied with a fearful oath; and our hero, the waterman, at once took the lead. Onward went this band of ruffians prepared for any crime, even murder itself, rather than resign their purpose. The gloomy subterranean passage, enveloped in darkness that might be felt, echoed with the shrieks of numberless rats as they fled before the unwonted glare of the lanterns held by three of the men, and ran screaming up the side passages which branched off in every direction. The water grew deeper as they advanced, until it was up to their middle, the congealed fat obstructed their progress, so that it was difficult to make headway at all. But eager to get to the best place, where the largest quantities lay, before they began to fill their sacks, they pressed onward about four hundred yards. By this time the water-man had got some thirty yards in advance of his companions, when suddenly one of the men behind him cried out “Fire, fire,” and turning round he witnessed a sight which he has never since forgotten. The sewer was on fire. This occurred through gas igniting from an open lantern, and part of the surface of the water between him and his companions was suddenly clothed in flame. With a cry of horror his comrades fled and left him alone. Troops of rats from the gullies ran screaming past him; before him the passage was blocked up by a great mass of fat, which if the fire had reached it, would speedily be in flames. Behind him was the fire, and above him the foul, suffocating gas, which ever and anon ignited and blazed up to the roof. It was a position enough to make the stoutest heart quail, and when he gazed upon the awful sight, his blood seemed to curdle in his veins. The enormities of all his past life rose up before him, and passed like a terrible panorama across his trembling spirit, intensifying the horrors of his situation. He saw no way of escape, yet vowed that if delivered he would “turn over a new leaf:” a promise often made in the hour of nature’s anguish, but if made in nature’s strength, never kept, or if kept utterly unavailing either to atone for the past, or to save in the future.

Pause here a moment, reader, and look upon this man, far down “under the earth,” alone amid flames and horrors indescribable, entrapped in the very act of breaking the laws of God and man, a blasphemer and injurious, the pangs of conscience, harrowing up his inmost soul, while the fire threatens to consume his body, the foul gas and stench to suffocate him where he stands! “Consider him.” He had stolen another man’s boat, and had left his own family to starve, while he spent the night by its means in all manner of wickedness of word and deed, enough to make even our sinful hearts to shudder. As if this were not enough, he becomes a leader in a daring robbery; and now, overtaken in the midst of his iniquity, there is nothing before him but a terrible death, “and after this the judgment!” What a picture of depravity and ruin! And yet, fearful as the depravity of this man’s actions appears, it was but the outflow, the manifestation, of that which is in every heart by nature. Could men but see themselves as God sees them; could the “flesh” in all its enormity become as visible to their eyes as it is to His who “knoweth the hearts,” this would be apparent at once.

This little narrative, after all, only shows man as he is, and that but faintly. It does but lift the curtain a little way and give a glimpse of what the heart and nature of man are, in their outgoings, when unchecked by circumstances, the fear of man, education, moral training or religiousness. These things may dam up the stream, but the fountain of evil is there, and not until brought under the power of the blood of Christ and of his Spirit is there any remedy. In some it may not be seen by man through a long life. But God sees it; and God shall bring every work into judgment with every secret thing (Eccl. 11:9; 12:14; Matt. 12:36). Oh that the reader, if out of Christ, could be persuaded to believe this! If in this man’s career and associations, from the moment that he left his sailing barge till now that we see him standing in the vault face to face with death and judgment, you have a practical comment on that word. “The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked” (Jer. 17:9): what is that heart but your own? But the moral reader may be disposed, like the Pharisee of old, to “thank God that he is not as other men are” (Luke 18:2). What folly! That which is born of the flesh is flesh! (John 3:6.) What was this man but “flesh”? What his whole career but its outgoings? With what force in the face of such a picture of depravity does that word come, “Except a man be born again he cannot see the kingdom of God” (John 3).

To return to our narrative. The Lord hath said, “I will have mercy on whom I will have mercy, and I will have compassion on whom I will have compassion” (Rom. 9:15; Matt. 9:13). And he showed mercy to this grievous sinner when all hope seemed cut off. As the man stood there in all his agony of remorse and fear, a way of escape suddenly presented itself to his mind. The water was up to his waist, but he was a good swimmer, and it occurred to him that as the flames were only on the surface of the water, he might if he could swim beneath them avoid a terrible death. Approaching as near as he dared to the fire, he dived and swam on, and coming up beyond the flames, he was saved. Yes, God spared his life, wicked as it had been., And now the reader will exclaim, — “Surely a deliverance so signally remarkable, from death in so many terrible forms, will have its intended effect, —the man will be ‘a changed character’ for the rest of his days, —will keep the vows he made in that moment of anguish!” No such thing, reader. Circumstances cannot turn the heart. Fire, the fear of death, the stings of conscience; nay, more, “a fearful looking-for of judgment” cannot work “repentance not to be repented of” (2 Cor. 7:10). He had no sooner joined his companions than his “good resolutions” vanished with his fears, and he returned to his old courses. Oh the hardness of man’s heart, blind to the truth that “the goodness of God leadeth to repentance!” But He who spared him and snatched him on this memorable occasion, literally “as a brand from the burning” (Zech. 3:2), saving him “so as through the fire,” from the just judgment that impended over him, would not even now give him up. Blessed be his name, he will have mercy on whom he will have mercy.” A time came at last when this man’s hard heart was broken, but it was not by fire, nor whirlwind, nor earthquake, but by the “still small voice” of God’s most precious word. Yes, dear reader, there is no other way. Circumstances may control but cannot create. He who said, “Let there be light, and there was light” (2 Cor. 4:6), can alone do that, and he does it by his word. “It pleased God, by the foolishness of the preaching to save them that believe” (1 Cor. 1:21). Morality may conceal but cannot cleanse. Nothing but the blood of Christ can wash away a single stain. Without shedding of blood there is no remission of sins, no forgiveness; you may forget, but you cannot blot out, one of the many sins you have committed. What avails if the old debt be not discharged, even though you could live on without adding to the terrible catalogue? “There is not a just man upon earth that doeth good and sinneth not” (Eccl. 7:20). But “the blood of Jesus Christ, God’s Son, cleanseth us from all sin” (1 John 1:7). Religiousness may deceive the soul but cannot regenerate, yet “you must be born again” (John 3:3). What then will you do? where will you turn? Within all is corruption, around no remedy; but it is written, “Look unto me, and be ye saved” (Isa. 45:22). “I am the way, the truth, and the life” (John 14:6). Come unto me all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest” (Matt. 11:29). May you be drawn unto him in the power of the Spirit by the word; then and then only you shall be saved.

“Having loved his own which were in the world, he loved them unto the end.” —John 13:1.

JESUS, my heart rejoices,

While on thy love I dwell:

‘Tis like a flowing river,

A deep, up springing well,

Ineffable, unchanging,

Love that no measure knows;

‘Tis here, with joy adoring,

I’d peacefully repose.

Thy presence, Lord, sustaineth,

Amid the conflict here;

I cannot now be lonely,

Nor will I yield to fear.

In Thee I well may glory,

Apart from all below,

My one, my only treasure,

Surpassing all I know.

O Jesus! Saviour! keep me,

Abiding in thy love,

Till thou shalt come to take me

Home to the rest above.

For thee, dear Lord, I’m waiting,

Waiting thy face to see,

To share in all thy glories,

To be conformed to thee.

J.M.D.

A Lamb of the Fold Part 2;

Or, a Brief and Simple Memoir of Florence K. Naylor.

WEEKS passed on, and I became much concerned about poor little Florry. Her merry, happy countenance gradually changed, and she began to look exceedingly sorrowful; and all her desire seemed to be to return to school as a boarder. On one occasion, being visited by one of her schoolfellows, she told them she would rather come back to school than have all the fine things in the world. During the sultry summer months of 1867, she would walk a distance of two miles every Sunday afternoon, to spend an hour with me. We met at a certain time and place, and never was she either absent or behind the time; so precious were the opportunities to her. Often would her little sister beg her to stay, as mother had something nice for them in the cupboard; but nothing could induce her to do so. But ah, I plainly saw that this dear one was not long for this world. No pen can describe my feelings as I gazed on that lovely countenance, now growing careworn and sad. It seemed almost more than I could bear. I wrestled day and night with the Lord on her behalf, until faith seemed to say, “Stand still and see the salvation of God.”

One Sunday afternoon, about three weeks before she was taken ill, we were sitting together alone, and she was telling me that she had been to the doctor, and that he had sounded her chest, adding — “I know why they sound people; they can tell whether they are likely to live long or not.” “Well darling,” I said, “and suppose he had told you that you had only a few weeks to live, how would you feel about it?” The tears started into her eyes as she exclaimed, with deep emotion, “Oh, I should cry for joy!” so entirely had all fear of death been removed from her mind.

“On the Lamb my soul is resting,

What his love no words can say;

All my sins, so great, so many,

In his blood are washed away.

Sweetest rest and peace have filled me,

Sweeter peace than tongue can tell;

God is satisfied with Jesus,

I am satisfied as well.

Now my heart no more condemns me;

For his own most precious blood

Once for all has washed and cleansed me,

Cleansed me in the eyes of God.

Filled with this sweet peace forever,

On I go through strife and care;

Till I find that peace around me,

In the Lamb’s high glory there.”

The time at length drew near when the Lord was about to remove all anxiety from my mind respecting this beloved child; and though I cannot speak of her removal without many a pang, yet I bless God for the sweet and happy assurance that she will be among that countless throng who will dwell forever with the Lamb (Rev. 5). Her illness, though short, was most painful and distressing to those who witnessed her sufferings. Seven weeks from the day on which she was taken ill, her little form lay in the silent tomb, there awaiting the morning of the resurrection. Word was brought to me one morning that dear Florry was not well, having had much pain in her left leg; and on the day following she entered the school, supported by her little sister. She rained until we closed at noon, though with great difficulty; and several times during the morning she cried out with pain, and seemed quite faint from exhaustion; yet notwithstanding all this, she was there again in the afternoon. Her parents, perceiving her unwillingness to remain at home, and not apprehending any danger, had her carried to and from the school for nearly a week, during which time she was scarcely heard to complain. The Monday following she appeared much weaker, and the leg at times was perfectly useless. A physician was at once consulted, who pronounced her case a serious one, as it proceeded chiefly from the spine. He also gave it as his opinion that grief and sorrow had been preying upon the child’s mind for some time; which opinion, considering the physician’s utter ignorance of the child’s history, so exactly corresponding with our knowledge of the facts, proved beyond a doubt his remarkable skill and experience in matters connected with his profession. He gave strict orders that she should be kept perfectly quiet and undisturbed. Often, when in health, had she expressed her great desire that I might be permitted to be much with her whenever it should please the Lord to call her hence; and in this, her request was fully granted; but he, who sees not as man sees, in his infinite wisdom saw fit to withhold all intercourse between us during the last three weeks of her life.

“God moves in a mysterious way

His wonders to perform;

He plants his footsteps in the sea,

And rides upon the storm.

Blind unbelief is sure to err,

And scan his work in vain;

God is his own interpreter,

And he will make it plain.”

I visited her many times during her illness, and each time found her in much pain of body, and evidently sinking fast. On one occasion I found her lying upon the sofa with her lap full of little books. I sat down beside her, took from my satchel a little book entitled, “The White Robe,” and placed it in her hand. She thanked me with a sweet smile, and begged I would read it to her. I did so, she holding my hand in hers, and every now and then interrupting me to ask some question, or make some sweet remark. When I had concluded, she again thanked me, requesting me to come and read to her again as soon as possible. On my next visit I found her unable to converse, being in great pain. I spoke a few words to her of the love of Jesus, of his tender care over the little lambs of his fold, and of the glories that awaited her in heaven. I then left her, committing her to the care of him who carries the lambs in his bosom (Isa. 40:11). She was visited by her schoolfellows, and nothing seemed to give them greater pleasure than to take her some little delicacy which they thought she might fancy, in token of their great love for her.

The next time I saw her she was confined to her bed. She had been in a state of unconsciousness for several days, and continued so until her death. Day after day I sat at that bedside, gazing on that lovely form — the eyes closed as if in sleep, and the tongue powerless — waiting with intense eagerness to catch one word or look of recognition before she passed away — to hear those lips once more breathe forth the precious name of Jesus, as was her wont; —but ah! even this could not be permitted.

One afternoon, a day or two before her death, while in a state of delirium, surrounded by her weeping relatives and friends, she made an effort to raise herself in bed, fixed her eyes upon her mother, and with a look of intense earnestness, exclaimed, “Mother, my dear mother, look after those two dear little ones, and teach them that there is a God, and teach them to know him.” These were, I believe, about the last words she uttered. Her mission here, though short, was now fully accomplished, her work on earth done, and she now seemed to have nothing further to do. The day before her death, which took place on the Sunday, I visited her for the last time; but oh, what a change had taken place! Death was indeed stamped upon her features. The blue lips, the cold, clammy sweat upon her fair brow, her short but heavy breathing, bore strong indications that her end was very near. Many times during the day I strove to soothe her by breathing into her ear words of consolation, but she heeded them not. Several times she suddenly opened her eyes, fixed them upon the ceiling, and appeared to be gazing intently upon some object, then as quickly closed them. I remained with her until eleven o’clock at night, when I was compelled to leave: I shall not attempt to describe the last farewell. Early the following morning I received the joyful intelligence that this dear lamb was “Gone home.” I hastened to the house to learn the particulars of her last moments, and found that she continued much the same as when I left her until about three o’clock in the morning, when she calmly and peacefully fell asleep in Jesus, without a struggle or a sigh. So gently did the Lord remove her, that for some moments her friends sat watching for the last breath. “Absent from the body, present with the Lord.”

Shortly after her death, while looking over all her little treasures, I found, locked up in her workbox, several precious little books and tickets which she had received at the Sunday-school; also a little pocket-book, on the first leaf of which, in her own handwriting, were these words, “Behold the Lamb of God which taketh away the sin of the world;” and also, “The Lord is gracious and full of compassion; slow to anger and plenteous in mercy.” Precious relic of the dear departed one, indicating the firm and solid rock, “the Rock of ages,” on which she had builded!

Dear young reader, pause a moment ere you close this little book, and ask yourself these heart-searching questions: “Am I, like this dear child, trusting simply in the Lord Jesus for my everlasting salvation? Am I building all my hopes upon him? Has he my whole heart? or am I still in my sins, careless and indifferent, going on to destruction?” Oh let me warn you. “Now is the accepted time, now is the day of salvation.” Oh, delay not a moment, to-morrow may be too late. Trust in the Lord while he may be found. Then, should death come unexpectedly, as in the case of this little one before us, you will only the sooner be with Christ (Phil. 1:23). May the Lord open your eyes and make you see your condition as a lost sinner; may he draw your young heart towards himself, and may you know while in youth, what a blessed thing it is to have him for your Saviour, and the strength of your heart and your portion forever (Psa. 73:2G). “Him that cometh to me I will in no wise cast out” (John 6).

"Today, While it is Called Today."

I PASSED an evening with a young man, at the house of a common friend. He was well read on several subjects, most amiable in his disposition and manners, and evidently dissatisfied with himself, —a skeptic rather than a confirmed infidel. He seemed to take a great interest in my conversation, and I saw I had made a considerable impression on him. But it is easy to silence, more difficult to convince, and impossible, by human effort alone, to convert. “Not by might, nor by power, but by my Spirit, saith the Lord.”

I said, “When do you mean to give the subject of religion an honest and diligent attention?”

“I am going to Birmingham tomorrow, to form an advantageous partnership in a leading firm. It will take me two or three months to complete all the arrangements, and then, I assure you, I will read and think as you have advised.”

“But what if you should die before the arrival of the time you fix? I hear a very solemn warning, — ‘This night shall thy soul be required:’ and then whose shall those things be that thou halt provided? Depend upon it, you are deceiving your own heart. ‘Tomorrow’ is a fatal delusion, and has been the ruin of thousands. He who defers the duty of the moment may never see the ‘more convenient season:’ and if he does, will be less inclined than ever to embrace it. You might at least begin with an hour or two a-day, till you have more leisure.”

“It is impossible, sir. I cannot spare a moment. My whole time and thoughts will be engaged in getting into the business of the house, and a proper attention to it at first may affect all my future life.”

“What, sir, is this the sound exercise of reason?”

I forget his reply, or whether he made any. We parted forever, and I heard that he was buried before the end of a month. —An Extract.

The Heart.

“Foolishness is bound in the heart of a child.” —Proverbs 22:15.

“The thought of foolishness is sin.” —Proverbs 24:9.

A child a little garden had,

In which were sown good seeds,

The ground, however, was so bad

It yielded naught but weeds.

Dear child, your heart is like the ground,

There’s nothing good within;

The only seed that there is found

And all its fruit is sin. —Jeremiah 17:9.

Scenes from Real Life.

THOSE who are conversant with the north of England, and especially with some parts of —shire, will doubtless have been struck with the character of its scenery. The hills are lofty and bold. Sometimes at a great elevation there is an extensive table-land, chiefly moor and unenclosed, stretching out for several miles. The scenery varies into rugged and rocky defiles, leading into fertile meadows, which again give place to ruder features. I was led into such a neighborhood as answers to the former description.

The village was situated on the edge of a moor, which extended some distance. The country was wild in the extreme, and the population not a little like it. Nature had not been prodigal of charms to the country, nor had civilization done much for the people. They were rude and rough, yet hearty. I had an “open door” to witness to the grace of God, and a willing audience: I was kindly invited to partake of refreshment at the house of a newly married couple where hospitality was as cheerfully bestowed as it was cordially received. Whilst at tea, a young woman entered from the neighborhood; and, as I was speaking of God’s grace to some individuals I had met with, she said she had just left a person dying who stood greatly in need of it. I need not say that I volunteered a visit immediately. We went together, and on entering the house, found a poor woman propped up in bed. The impress of death was on her features, and it needed but little skill to discern that her days were numbered; indeed, her time could be reckoned by hours. A very few words introduced my errand and myself. Her danger quickened her apprehension, and she asked imploringly if I could do anything for her soul. “Oh!” she exclaimed, “if I might but live, how different would I be in future! I have not done as I ought, and now I am dying; Lord have mercy upon me!” Here I found soil ready prepared to drop the seed into. The Spirit of God had revealed her condition; conviction was wrought in the mind. Would not God permit the balm to be applied to her wounds? I sat beside her, and as simply as I could, put before her the grace of God in the gift of a Saviour, and how Jesus was such indeed. She listened with agonizing attention, only interrupted by the occasional change of position, to relieve her breathing. After prayer, I withdrew to the preaching, which was to commence at six o’clock.

The audience was already assembled.

When the service was concluded, it rained in torrents, and I had the prospect of a twelve miles ride over the moors, before I should reach my abode for the night. I could not, however, hurry away. This poor woman was laid upon my heart, and I again sought her cottage before leaving the neighborhood. I found her pretty much as I had left her, as to bodily suffering. Inquiring if she had considered over what had been advanced in my previous visit, she replied, she had done so, as much as her pain would allow, “But I want something more; I feel I am not prepared to die; Lord have mercy upon me! Oh, if he would but spare me a few days, that I might repent!” “My good woman,” I replied, “days, months, or years, would not make your condition or salvation more secure. The word is nigh thee; that if thou shalt confess with thy mouth the Lord Jesus, and shalt believe in thine heart that God path raised him from the dead, thou shalt be saved.” Still the veil was over her mind. She groaned in very bitterness of spirit, “I have neglected the chief thing for which I came into the world. O Lord, have mercy upon me! Cannot you give me any ease, sir?” she said, appealing to me. “Yes, my good woman,” I replied; “you know if you were traveling by the railway to any place, you must have a ticket to pass you. And now you are traveling from time to eternity, and there is a ticket that will pass you.” “Heigh!” she exclaimed, “do tell what it is.”

I briefly replied, “The blood of Jesus Christ his Son cleanseth us from all sin.”

“Will that pass me?” she eagerly inquired.

“It will, indeed,” said I.

“Do let me learn it by heart.” And she endeavored to learn this heavenly passport by heart, making such efforts to speak as her strength would allow until she could repeat it word for word. Strange as it may appear, this cost her some effort. The rain beat in torrents against the window. The wind howled in the doorway. Nature was boisterous without, but this strange scene of a dying woman (in the very article of death) seeking to learn a text of God’s word, as a child does her catechism, absorbed all our attention. I waited the result. My dying pupil laid hold of the letter; might not God apply it in power by the Spirit to her soul? I prayed with her, and left her. Her last imploring appeal was, “It will pass me, won’t it?” Unhesitatingly I answered her that it would; for surely the word of God presented before him, the Holy Spirit’s testimony to the efficacy of the blood of Jesus would pass this poor sinner. She died in two days afterward; yet before she expired, the Spirit bare witness with her spirit that the blood of Jesus Christ had cleansed her from all sin. She felt, as she said, “it would pass her;” and as if the assurance of her safety might be really indulged, she remarked to those about her, “If the Lord did but suffer me to live three months, I have gotten such hold of the truth, I could convert all the house.” Surely she sleeps in Jesus.

“O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory? The sting of death is sin; and the strength, of sin is the law. But thanks be to God, which giveth us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.” — 1 Corinthians 15:55-57.

"If I Die as I am, What will Become of Me?"

A True Story of a Little Child.

IN the year 1861, a number of children and young people were assembled in a large hall with the object of having their attention directed to their individual need of a Saviour, when the following letter was read, with earnest prayer that their young hearts and minds might be blessed through its contents: ―

Dear young Friends, —A friend who loves you all very much wishes to tell you something. You all like books with pictures in them, I am quite sure of that.

Listen then, and I will tell you of a little girl who loved picture-books very much, and although she was hardly old enough to read all the words, or know all the meanings of the words, yet she liked pleasing tales and pictures, and never seemed to tire with looking at them over and over. So one day this little girl was very busy turning all the other books out of the way, to find the old favorite with its droll faces and strange figures, when in a moment there seemed the sound of a voice quite close to her, and the voice said to the little girl, “If you die as you are, what will become of you?” She looked round, thinking it must be her father speaking to her. But no; there was no one in that large room, that she could see, except herself, yet the voice said again, “If you die as you are, what will become of you?” and she felt that it went down into her heart, and something there said, “Yes; what will become of you?”

The little girl closed the large book with its pictures and went away very slowly and very thoughtfully into a quiet part of the garden behind the house, but the voice followed her there, and still said to her, “If you die as you are, what will become of you?”

The voice sounded very solemn and very sad, and yet it seemed always to speak with such love and pity to that little girl, always, always the same words, “If you die as you are, what will become of you?” A long time the little girl stood there in the garden all alone, thinking, and holding her frock very tightly in both hands. I can tell you all she thought about. She thought, “Yes; I am a sinner, and if I die as I am, a sinner, what will become of me? I am afraid I should have to go to hell, to be always with the devil and his angels. But I will try from now to be very good, and if I can only get to be good before I die, then God will, I hope, let me go to heaven; for I should not like to be always with the devil and his angels.”

O my dear young friends, I must tell you how mistaken this little girl was in forgetting that God did really love sinners, for do we not read, “God commendeth his love toward us, in that, while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us.” And she did not think of that friend of little children, that friend of sinners, Jesus, who spoke to her heart in the large room, and then in the garden.

If any of you feel yourselves to be sinners, and fear to die as you are, oh do not, as this little lassie did, look ALL at yourselves and your own weakness, and forget Jesus who only can save you, and is quite near to you always, if you will only look to him.

This little girl I am telling you of did not try to put this voice away from her. She had a naughty, obstinate temper — she tried to mend this, and those about her began to say they thought she was at last going to be a good, obedient little child, and sometimes she thought so herself; but oh, it was very hard work, for she often forgot herself. I will tell you one thing she found it very hard to do, and that was to go past a large Appletree, where the boughs were very low, and the apples so sweet. She was told not to touch them, yet sometimes she seemed as if she could not help taking out her little stool, standing on which she could reach the apples easily; yet if she took one she could not eat it, but threw it away, for the voice would then say louder than ever, “If you die as you are, a disobedient child — a thief — what will become of you?” At other times she would only look at the tree, and say, “No, no, I must not touch one of you, for I am trying now to be good.” But, poor little girl, she often did not succeed, and the voice still kept saying, “If you die as you are, what will become of you?”

One day she gave her breakfast and all her money to a poor boy, and whilst she did so she thought, “God will begin to love me for doing this, and I shall begin to get fit to go to heaven I hope.” But the voice still said, “If you die as you are, what will become of you?” So the poor little girl did not know what else she could do. She did not know the love of the Lord Jesus.

One night she had gone to bed; the nurse had taken away the light, and thought she had left her asleep; but oh, no, she lay on her little bed thinking, thinking always of what was to become of her if she should die just as she was. She said to herself, “I am afraid I never, never shall get to be good, so good as to be fit to go to heaven;” and then she thought, and this was the best thought of all, “I will just now tell Jesus all about it;” and this was her prayer to Jesus as she lay there on her little bed that night: “Oh, if you please, Jesus, I am quite sure I have tried a long while to make myself fit to go to heaven when I die, but I can’t do it. I am so often doing something wrong, and then being very sorry about it, and that is just all. Oh, what must I do? I am so very sorry, and I am very tired. I want so to have rest. O Jesus, please let me rest. If you would take me just for a little in your arms as you did the little children in the Bible. If you would take me, and take away all my sins, too. And, oh, if you won’t — if you won’t — and I die as I am, what will become of me?”

Poor little girl! her heart was ready to break at this thought, so she could say no more, but just hid her face, all wet with tears, in the pillow.

But, dear reader, Jesus Christ loves little children, and he loved this little girl, and had been waiting to take her, and bless her, but she had been so busy trying to make herself “fit to die,” that she had never once, till now, looked in simple faith to Christ for the “rest” which he alone can give the sinner. And oh, how kindly did that compassionate Saviour smile upon this “little one,” and say, “Come.” “Come unto me all ye that labor and are heavy-laden, and I will give you rest.” Oh, it was a sweet word, that “Come!” The little girl obeyed, and in the love of Jesus felt she had “rest.”

And oh, wonderful, delightful feeling! the voice that had said so long, “If you die as you are, what will become of you?” was hushed; she heard it no more, but went to sleep and awoke, saying, “Oh, I am so happy now! I do love Jesus.” And when she rose the next morning, she was so glad, so full of joy, for she felt Jesus was still with her.

Ah! she saw Jesus now, by faith; and oh, what a sweet attraction held her upturned gaze upon him, “the Man of sorrows and acquainted with grief;” “the crucified;” “the sinner’s Friend.”

Jesus was dearer to her than all beside, and because she loved and wished to please him, she found she could obey her father, and try not to be naughty and obstinate a great deal better, and could say to herself, “Jesus helps me now.”

By faith in Christ her sins were all forgiven, and she became a new creature (John 1:12; vs. 24; Acts 10:43 Gal. 3:26).

And from that happy night, now a long while ago, in his unmerited love and mercy, Jesus has cared for that little one, and is as dear to her as ever.

The little girl has grown up to be a woman, often feeling her weakness, and the blessedness of his supporting arm in the time of need and of his consolation in the hour of trial and sorrow.

And she it is, dear young friends, who writes you this letter, because she is quite sure that a voice is often going down into your hearts, saying, “IF I DIE AS I AM, WHERE SHALL I GO?” And oh if you die in your sins, unwashed in the precious blood of Jesus, you cannot enter heaven. But Jesus says to you all, “Come.” Oh, trust not in yourselves, but look to Jesus to help you, to save you, and to give you rest, and in coming to him, you shall find rest, and learn also how

“To watch and pray,

And live rejoicing every day.”

The Falling House.

IT was now near midnight and no one was likely to pass outside who could assist the imprisoned inmate to escape. He was all alone. An open area in front of the lower windows of the house rendered egress in that direction impracticable; and the back of the premises was in a more critical condition than even the front. To call for help would have been vain, as the increasing uproar made by the men at work in the excavation would have drowned the loudest cry. As each passing moment might bring down the house “at an instant, suddenly,” his position was sufficiently critical. He made one more effort to open the door, but it was immovably fixed, as in a vice. No effort of his was likely to open a door jammed tight by the weight of a sinking house! The attempt was useless; he saw it to be so, and felt there was no way of deliverance but in the power of God. This conviction gave him no alarm. It is written, “Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on thee, because he trusteth in thee;” and he found it so, even in that critical moment.

Dear reader, if a believer in the Lord Jesus Christ, “trust in the Lord at all times, pour out your heart before him.” “He is a very present help in trouble.” Prove him in faith, and you will find him so. But you will say, “I know that if I could really rely, it would be so; but my faith wavers; doubts and fears creep in; he is dishonored, and how then can I count upon him?” Ask him to give you power to cling, and he will both uphold and deliver. Look not at your faith, but keep your eye on God and his promises. “He is very pitiful and of tender mercy.” “He knoweth our frame.” “Like as a father pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth them that fear him.” “He is full of compassion and gracious.” Yes, blessed be his name; he loves his people with a love no tongue can ever tell out, nor anything express but the cross of Christ. There alone we see its wondrous manifestations, although our hearts are slow indeed to learn its depths; nor till we sit down in the presence of God and the Lamb shall we ever enter as we ought to do into the profound, unfathomable sea of that marvelous love! In the meanwhile, it is in communion we learn its preciousness, and in the paths of faithfulness its power. John, leaning on the Saviour’s bosom, enjoyed the sweet consciousness of his confiding love; and standing by the cross, whence fear had driven all his brethren, he was safe in the omnipotence of that love which would not spare itself. Precious Master! all that man could do was done to thee, and borne so patiently! But though the storm had been allowed to beat unhindered on thine own blessed head, the four who stood in faithfulness beside thy cross in the closing moments of that awful scene, stood there unharmed, and went away unscathed by all the malice of men and Satan.

To return to our narrative. Faith was active; and therefore amid all the darkness, uproar, and solitude of his dangerous position, the imprisoned inmate of the falling house felt no fear. Placing his bundle on the floor, he took hold of the door again and asked the Lord to help him. Whether at that precise moment the builders, who were laboring hard to shore up the wall outside, had succeeded in just lifting the weight off the door, matters little. He had no sooner asked deliverance than he had it. The door opened without a struggle, and he walked into the street unharmed, and rejoined his family. “All things whatsoever ye shall ask in prayer, believing, ye shall receive.”

But if the reader be not a believer in the Lord Jesus Christ, he must remember that neither this gracious promise nor any other in the word belongs to him. “No hope, and without God in the world!” Can any position be more solemn in the face of that which “at an instant, suddenly,” like the fall of a bowing wall may come upon him, —death and the judgment to come! To such there are no promises, but there is an offer; and if, reader, you are yet in your sins, you are entreated to accept it before it is too late. You are in a falling house, whether we apply that figure to your perishing body or the world you dwell in.

Hasten your escape. The “Door” yet stands invitingly open. Jesus said, “I am the door; by me if any man enter in he shall be saved.”

The Orphan Stranger; or, Flower and Fruit.

THE setting sun was obscured by dark clouds, and distant thunder warned me to shorten my evening stroll. The nearest path towards home was by Y― ‘s farm. As I approached the comfortable abode, I saw his wife standing at the garden-gate.

“Are you looking for your husband?” I inquired.

“No; I am happy to say he has been in this quarter of an hour. I am anxiously watching for the arrival of an invalid committed to my care. Lady N. called at our house last week and asked if I could accommodate one of her female servants. The young woman, she said, had been ill for many months, and required medical attendance and good nursing. She was also pleased to say, that having made inquiry into my character, and finding it every way satisfactory, she was willing to meet any reasonable demand I might make; and as she was going to travel with her family, she would be glad to have a ready answer. We soon came to terms, and the invalid was to be with me this evening.”

“Has she any friends in this place?” I inquired.

“My lady told me she was an orphan, and that the few relations she had were in a distant county, living in poverty; but, hark! I hear the sound of wheels.”

A fresh arrival in a retired village excites attention, and the neighbors stood at their cottage doors to see the stranger alight. The young woman was so much fatigued, that her companions bore her in their arms to the house. They remained with her until she was partially recovered, and when they took leave of her the fast falling tear showed how much she felt at parting with them. I remained in the room during the thunder-storm, and from the expressions that were dropped in conversation, found that poor Wilmot, for such was her name, in the midst of her distress was without the rich consolation of knowing “the Lord;” the word of God was no rich treasury to her. She had not been brought to Christ.

On the following morning I found her wrapped in a warm shawl, sitting under the influence of a July sun.

“How are you today?” I inquired.

“Thank you very much for this attention,” she replied, “I could not have expected a visit from you so early; I am not recovered from my journey, but I like the lodging. I think this air will do me good, and if I should recover, my lady told me her house should be my home again. I am afraid I shall be very dull here, there is nothing to amuse me, and I have not an acquaintance in the village.”

“Have you any books?” I asked.

“I do not like reading,” she replied; “I am not much of a workwoman, and 1 find Mrs. Y―is much engaged with her farm, so that I shall be lonely indeed.”

After having made a few general observations, I asked her if she had been in the habit of going to any place of worship when the weather was fine.

She said, “I would sometimes take a walk to the church with an acquaintance, but for some months past I have been unequal to the fatigue.”

“It is well,” I said, “to embrace every opportunity of hearing the word of God.”

She instantly replied, “I have no cause to reproach myself, having always performed my duty. My lady would give me the best of characters, and her present kindness proves how well she is satisfied with my conduct; and my fellow-servants I am sure would speak favourably of me, for I always acted towards them as I should wish them to do to me. That is the best gospel.”

“It is a good rule,” I replied. “But there is duty owing to God as well as to man, and the blessed Saviour says, the first and great commandment is, Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, with all thy soul, and with all thy strength.’ Can you do that?”

Wilmot gave evident tokens of fatigue and restlessness, and after a few words more I left her to repose.

In successive visits I endeavored to interest her affections, making no allusion to our former conversation, occasionally reading a little, or repeating suitable hymns. This plan placed the young woman at her ease, and she expressed her sentiments without reserve. Upon one occasion I was reading the 20th chapter of Matthew to her. She interrupted me at the 32d verse, clasped her hands, and cried aloud, ―

“If I had faith, then, I might recover. Oh how ardently do I desire to live! Oh that I might be restored to health and activity! Do you pray for me. God will hear you. Sometimes I do hope I shall get well. I can walk with less fatigue than I did last week, and I eat my food with better appetite; my cough is troublesome, but that is not of much consequence. I may be better yet.”

I felt it would be useless to endeavor to repress such thoughts by attempting to fix her attention upon the dreadful subject of death. I therefore sought to awaken her mind to the beauties of redeeming love, and to lead her to meditate upon select portions of Scripture without any immediate reference to herself; waiting for a seasonable opportunity of saying, “Thou art the man.”

As months rolled on every neighbor remarked the progress of disease on poor Wilmot’s frame. She alone was insensible to any change; but the eye of a long-suffering God was upon her for good, the life-giving word became an instrument in his hands of opening her understanding, and she listened to it with interest. While casual observers were pronouncing upon the frivolity of her conversation, a God of infinite purity and wisdom was silently instilling into her mind heavenly truth, line upon line, as the weak vessel could receive it. How wonderfully gracious is the forbearance of God towards sinners! God’s ways are not our ways, nor his thoughts our thoughts. He “waiteth to be gracious.”

One morning as I was returning from visiting in the village, I met Mrs. Y―.

“Will you have the kindness,” she said “to call in at my house as you pass by? Wilmot is low spirited; she gives way to melancholy thoughts. I assure you I find my engagement an arduous one.”

I found Wilmot weeping.

“You find me depressed today,” she said. “Mrs. Y — has had some friends to see her. They were happy together, I was not noticed; I have no friends to care for me: no one loves me. My relations, it is true, know that I do not want, but affection, affection there is none. No one will weep over my grave.”

“But angels may rejoice over you,” I replied.

She shook her head.

“The prodigal son was alone and deserted; when he came to himself,’ no man gave unto him.”

A pause ensued.

“Do you feel like the prodigal son, Wilmot?”

This beautiful history had often been the subject of conversation between us; her voice trembled while she said, ―

“I would willingly be God’s servant if I could.”

“God invites you in Christ to be his child.”

“That,” she replied, “would be happiness, indeed; but my sins are too great.”

“Look to Jesus;” I replied, “behold him bleeding on the cross. Do you ask why he was nailed there? The Scripture tells us he died for sinners. Do you feel yourself a sinner? you are invited to come as well as others.”

Wilmot said, “No one wants a Saviour more than I do, but I cannot approach him; I want power to do so.”

“Ask him to give you power,” I replied. “Lord, help thou mine unbelief,” was her fervent ejaculation, and God eventually granted that which she requested. In a little while she was enabled to believe, and from that time her confidence and trust in Jesus increased daily.”

Having once got settled peace herself, she became concerned for others, and especially for her nurse, Mrs. Y —. Henceforth she read the Scriptures to her every evening, and sought every opportunity of leading her to Christ, and the Lord blessed her labors. On one occasion she remarked to me, “Faith in the atoning blood of a crucified Saviour enables me to repose upon his encouraging promises. I hope I shall not be tempted with distrusting thoughts in the hour of death. When heart and flesh fail, and my fainting soul is sinking within me, Oh, how shall I do?”

“That,” replied Mrs. Y―, who was standing by her bedside, “is not your concern; God will provide for the morrow. He can supply all your wants; you put your trust in him and be not afraid; ‘He will never leave thee nor forsake thee.’”

These cheering promises, uttered by her own pupil, animated Wilmot’s countenance, and looking towards me, she exclaimed with a holy gratitude, “How good God is.”

“He is indeed,” I replied; “and giveth you peace always, by all means; and you will find in your hour of need, how well your heavenly Father knoweth how to deliver the godly out of temptation.”

Each successive visit became more and more satisfactory, and it was evident to all around that as her outward man decayed, her inward man was renewed day by day. Twelve months had now passed since I first saw Wilmot. The second winter of our acquaintance was ushered in with great severity. A deep fall of snow surrounded my house. The fast-falling flakes and trackless paths induced me to devote the day to study. Night advanced, and I was preparing to assemble my family circle for evening prayer, when I was told Mrs. Y― was inquiring for me at the house door. She told me that Wilmot was at the point of death, and wished to see me.

“I have brought my lantern,” said the kindhearted woman, “and a strong oaken staff, so that we shall not lose our footing.”

I found the expiring Christian awaiting my arrival. “I am anxious to see you before I die,” she said, “that I may tell you I am quite happy. The grave is no longer dreaded by me. Jesus is with me; my fears are gone; I am able to trust him fully. O God, I thank thee! O Jesus, my Saviour, my Hope, my All! Will you kneel and praise him for his unmerited goodness towards me?” Mrs. Y― joined with fervency in this our last prayer at the throne of grace. On the following morn I heard that Wilmot had yielded her spirit to him who had created and renewed it, She retained her confidence unto the end, and thus strengthened the faith of her nurse and pupil.

Blessed be God for this additional trophy to the Redeemer’s glory! After the funeral, I called on Mrs. Y —, and could not but remark her languid appearance. “I am much indisposed,” she said, “and I miss my young companion greatly; she was always directing my thoughts upwards. I feel quite lost without her at times. I feel so very ill that I think I shall not be long after her. May my last end be like hers!”

This kind-hearted woman had been struggling with internal cancer for some time past, and when she was told that her complaint was incurable, she showed no alarm, but committed her body, soul, and spirit to him who ordereth all things in infinite wisdom. She said to me one day, while I was sitting by the bedside, “The same Lord who saved Wilmot hath saved me also; the light that shone around her is not extinguished; though dead, she yet speaketh. I have, thank God, the same Shepherd to lead me. I bless God that that young woman ever entered my house. She was the first person that led me to see my own sinfulness and the value of redeeming love.” Even in the time of great bodily suffering Mrs. Y — was kept in perfect peace. She loved to dwell on the loving-kindness of the Lord in translating her into the kingdom of his dear Son. She lingered long and requested me to visit her while her life lasted. Towards the close of her pilgrimage, my own indisposition confined me to the house for ten days; at the end of that time the tolling bell spoke of the departure of a soul. I heard it was for Mrs. Y―; she had sunk into insensibility during my illness, and therefore did not regret my absence.

The nurse and her charge are now alike forgotten. The place which knew them knoweth them no more. Many seasons have passed over their graves. Not even a simple stone marks the spot where they sleep in Jesus; but their names are written in the Lamb’s book of life, they shall be manifested at last heirs of God and joint-heirs with Christ.

The Little Persian Girl.

LITTLE GOZEL lived on the borders of a beautiful lake in Persia. Many of the people of that land are idolatrous heathen. When they pray in their temples they bow before a fire which is always kept burning. When in the open air, they kneel to the sun, and offer to it their prayers and praises. Others are the followers of a false prophet named Mahommed.

It was not many years before she was born that pious men carried the light of Christian truth to her land. Before that time none of the women could read; there were no schools for female children to attend, no books for the people in their own tongue, no true knowledge of the way in which a sinner could be saved. We cannot tell how sad it is to live in such a state.

A Christian minister, named Henry Martyn, went among them to preach, and to give them the New Testament in their own tongue. After his death, others went to this land. They heard of the state of the people, and longed to do them good. They set up schools, taught in the streets and houses, and gave the whole Bible to those who were able to read it. Soon there were some who felt that they were sinners, and that they must seek for pardon and peace through the Lord Jesus Christ. The Holy Spirit began to work on their hearts; and, believing in the Lord, they were filled with joy.

Among those happy ones was the father of Gozel. He went to the Sunday-school, though he was getting rather old. There he learned to read the word of God. When a man feels a real concern about his soul he will not mind what he does, so that he may become wise unto salvation. He will be willing to become as a little child, so that he may be taught and guided in the right way.

Gozel was his only child. He loved her very much. He was glad that he could send her to school, and have her trained to know the Saviour of the lost, whom he found so dear to his own soul. He longed that she might give her heart to Jesus, and live on earth as one of Christ’s lambs.

The little Persian girl grew up to mind what was said to her. She tried all she could to please her parents and teachers, as all good children will do. As her mother did not know how to read, her little girl taught her as soon as she was able.

But all this time Gozel was not a true Christian; nor did she show any deep feeling about her soul. She was kind to everybody, was gentle in her manners, and willing to learn, and to obey those that were over her but then she did not feel that she was a sinner, and that she needed a Saviour (Matt. 9:12,13).

Some months passed away, when it was noticed that Gozel was much changed in all her ways. Often was she seen to go aside to read the Bible and to pray. It was plain to those who loved her that she was thinking of those words, “What must I do to be saved?” and of the answer to them, “Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ.”

Did this concern about her soul hinder her as a scholar in her studies? Not at all. She never got on so well before, for she seemed to learn faster than she had ever done. Gozel went to live at the mission-house along with other scholars, but when holiday-time came she went back to her home. Her conduct on her return pleased all who knew her. The Bible was her delight, and she was as consistent at home as when she was with her teachers. She was a happy little girl, trying to make all happy around her. And there is no surer way of being happy ourselves, and of making others so, than by walking in the fear of the Lord.

One evening Gozel took her Bible and went into her room to read it and to pray. It was the last time she was to do so. No one can tell when he prays or reads God’s word, that it may not be for the last time. Gozel then lay down to rest, but she never came again from her room. A sad disease called the cholera seized upon her before the morning. Her strength was quickly gone, and, after a few hours of pain, she died.

The scene of the funeral was very touching. Her parents laid her Bible on the coffin, and then sat down by its side and wept, though they did not sorrow without hope, as they once would have done. The gospel had brought light and hope to their minds. Her mother could only cry, “Gozel is gone. My little teacher has left me. My sweet Gozel has gone.” But the Saviour, who had first given to her his grace, had now taken her home to himself to await that blessed moment when she, with all his, shall be glorified (1 Thess. 4:13-17).

"I am Quite Weary."

“I AM tired of my wretched goings on,” — “I am weary in the devil’s service,” — “Satan is a hard master; he promises a happy life, and he only gives sorrow.” This has been, and is, the language of many a poor sinner. Perhaps the eye of one such may fall on this page. You have run in the way of sin, you have earned the devil’s wages, and now your poor heart is sad and sorrowful, and you would like to lie down quietly and die, if you did not remember those awful words, “After death the judgment.” But is there no hope for you?

There lived about a hundred years ago in England an honored servant of God, who preached the gospel with great power. One day a gentle rap came at his door, and a poor miserable-looking aged female asked to speak with him. “Ah! sir,” she said, “you were preaching last night; I passed the door, and hearing the voice of someone preaching, I did what I have never done before, I went in, and one of the first things I heard you say, was, ‘Jesus Christ is so willing to receive sinners, he will not even object to the devil’s castaways.’ Now, sir, I have been leading a miserable life for many years, and am so worn out in the devil’s service, that I may with truth, I think, be called one of his castaways. Do you think, sir, Jesus Christ would receive me?” The minister assured her he would, if she was willing to go to him. This poor, guilty sinner sought the Saviour, obtained grace and salvation, and by her consistent walk gave testimony that though her sins had been as scarlet, the atoning blood of Christ had washed them white as snow.

Will you follow the example of this poor woman? Though you are worn and weary, go to the “Friend of sinners,” —delay not a moment. “Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ and thou shalt be saved.”

"Dumb Within."

A POOR man who had been a thief, and very violent and wicked, was brought to know him whom to know is life eternal; and on being asked one day, the cause of the wonderful change, he said: “It was the crucifixion did it, ma’am. Punishment did me no good. It was it that made me so bad; but I was bad to begin with, and it could not change me. I was flogged and handcuffed and had irons on my legs, was in the ‘darks’ and solitary for many a day; and everything done to me I kicked against, and hated those that did it. I cursed and swore at them; and when I was silent, I did it more in my heart. Every stroke brought out a fresh sin. Nothing that I bore could pay my debt, for I broke the law again at every turn. It was all no use — no use to lay it on me. But oh, when I read of Jesus, how he was bruised for our iniquities and the chastisement of our peace was laid upon him, I saw that he could bear it. I was often dumb with my mouth like a man, and bit my lips till they bled, but he was dumb within like a sheep. When he was nailed he did not threaten. He submitted without a notion of rebelling, and this was the way he was able to pay up instead of us, for he was the Son of God and he had no sin. I see it plainly and I feel it. ‘The Lord laid on him the iniquity of us all;’ we could not bear it without becoming worse. This is what changed me, and I am a changed man.” —. Extract.

“The dying thief rejoiced to see

That Saviour in his day;

And by that blood, though vile as he,

My sins are washed away.”

Is the Sting Gone?

IT is related of a serpent-charmer living in Madras, a few years ago, that having obtained a cobra of considerable size, he had it conveyed to his home. Being occupied abroad all day, he neglected to get the dangerous fangs extracted from the serpent’s mouth. In the evening, having returned to his dwelling intoxicated, he began to exhibit tricks with his snakes, to various persons who were around him at the time. The newly caught cobra was brought out, and thoughtlessly handled like the rest, but the poisonous creature darted at his chin, and bit it, making two marks like pin points. Sobered at once, the poor juggler exclaimed, “I am a dead man! Nothing can save me!” His professional knowledge was but too accurate. In two hours he was a corpse.

Visiting a sick man a few days ago, he said, “I am never for five minutes at a time without thinking I shall soon have to die; it makes me miserable.” He added bitterly, “I wish I could forget it.” I urged that “the Bible says, ‘The sting of death is sin.’ It is because your sin is not pardoned and put away, that you are afraid to think about dying.” Like the poisonous cobra, death had a sting for this unhappy man.

Two days after this visit, I was led to the sick bed of a young man evidently sinking to an early grave. That morning he had been informed by his doctor that his disease (consumption) was making decided progress, a cavity having formed in his left lung. His face brightened as he told me this, and with a beautiful smile, he added, “I was so glad to hear of it, for it will not be long now before I get home.”

Death in his case had lost its sting; he feared it not. To die was only to go home — home to his Saviour, to whom in early life he had surrendered the heart that Saviour had won.

My friend, let me ask you the question at the head of this article, “Is the sting gone?” in other words, Are you prepared to die? Can you look death in the face without fear? Again I would say, “The sting of death is sin.” Is your sin pardoned? More than 1800 years ago, on a cross raised up between earth and sky, was One who in sorrow cried out, “My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?” Behold there, in the person of that scorned and suffering Jesus of Nazareth, “the Lamb of God which taketh away the sin of the world.” And yet it was of him the words were uttered, when the heavens were opened above his head, “This is my beloved Son, in whom I am welt pleased.” Why then did that sorrowful cry escape his lips? Because Jesus Christ was then on the cross bearing the wrath of God against sin. “All we, like sheep, have gone astray: we have turned everyone to his own way; and the Lord hath laid on him the iniquity of us all.”

Will you not give credit to God’s word which proclaims these glad tidings? and placing yourself on the list of lost and condemned sinners, believe the record which God hath given of his Son Jesus Christ? “And this is the record, that God hath given to us eternal life; and this life is in his Son. He that believeth not God, hath made him a liar, because he believeth not the record that God gave of his Son” (1 John 5:10, 11). “He that believeth on the Son of God hath everlasting life.”

The Wanderer's Home.

For the Little Ones.

I DON’T know where poor Sally’s home had been, or what might have been the trials of her early life. The first time I heard anything about her was in February last year; she came to the Ragged-school in Luke Street, Dublin, and begged to be admitted to the Home, for she was “homeless and desolate.” Her scanty clothing and starved appearance drew forth much pity from the ladies, but they could do nothing for her; the funds were very low, and the Home was quite full, and there were many other applicants, so that the poor girl was sent away — sent away! but where? Her stepmother had turned her out of the only home she had ever known, and she knew nothing of the Lord in heaven, who calls the outcast, saying in loving terms, “Come unto me, I will give you rest.” With a heavy heart she turned from the school-door; she wandered down one street, and then another, and then over the bridge and down Sackville Street. There were plenty of homes around, but none for poor Sally. It length, weary and hungry, she sat down on the steps of Nelson’s Pillar, buried her face in her hands, and wept bitterly.

The short evening was drawing to a close, and Sally was still sitting there, when a messenger-boy came up with a basket on his head. He stopped to speak to the poor girl, asking her what was the matter. At the sound of a kind voice, poor Sally looked up, and the boy saw that she was his own cousin. The sad story was soon told, and the boy told her where his mother lived, and said he was sure she would take her in if she would go, he was too busy to go with her himself. A ray of hope darted into the desolate heart of poor Sally, and a ray of sunshine to her face, and with a quick step she hastened to the home of her aunt. It was a small place in a back court, a kind of open room downstairs, and a more comfortable one above. Sally knocked timidly at the door — no one answered; again she knocked, and then she heard a pair of bare feet coming pattering down the stairs. It was her cousin Biddy. The child soon recognized her, and called out, “Mother! mother! here’s Sally come, and she’s just got no place to go to, mother; mayn’t she come in here?” And the mother, poor as she was, welcomed the poor girl, and they warmed her by the fire, and she shared their scanty meal and bed. Very scanty it was, for the aunt was a widow, and their only support was the money earned by doing coarse needlework — fourpence or sixpence a day. Poor Sally, she could not bear to stay there, and after a while she applied again for admission to the Home.

This time she was admitted. She was about sixteen years of age, a nice-looking girl, with large blue eyes and a thoughtful expression of countenance. She was of an amiable disposition, and gave very little trouble; but at first she very much disliked having to read the Bible, or to be questioned on its doctrines. “It is a Protestant book,” she said; “I will never be a Protestant.”

Two other girls who were in school at the same time, felt as she did, and they strengthened each other in their old belief. But by slow degrees the mind of poor Sally opened. She saw herself a sinner in God’s sight, and she saw that in the Bible Jesus was revealed as the Saviour of sinners. She thirsted for the “water of life,” and only through Christ could she find that which satisfied her, even “a well of water, springing up into everlasting life.” By grace she was at last brought to believe in him whose blood cleanseth from all sin. For eleven months Sally remained in the Home, “growing in grace and in the knowledge of Jesus Christ.” And then sickness came. The kind matron did all she could to make her better, but she grew worse and worse; it was evident that she was in a rapid decline. At her own request admission was sought for into an hospital. Before she went, one of the ladies said to her, “Sally, suppose we should never meet again; tell me what is your hope?” She replied, “All my hope is in Jesus, who died for me, and washed me in his blood; my sins are forgiven; we shall meet again above” (Acts 10:43 Col. 1:14).

For the two weeks Sally lay in the hospital, not a cloud dimmed the brightness of her faith; she knew in whom she had believed, and was fully persuaded that he was able to keep that which she had committed unto him. Oh, how often she thanked God that she had been brought to the ragged-school, where she had heard of Jesus, the Good Shepherd who had followed her in her wanderings, and led her by the right way, even when she knew it not. But now she knew the guiding hand, and the presence of the Saviour made all things light.

Sally is at HOME now. No more sorrow, no more wandering; but there are many, many left needing the hand of love and kindness to be outstretched to them.

Little Christian reader, will you not pray for them; will you not do what you can to lead the helpless destitute wanderer to Jesus? What would have become of poor Sally but for the hand of Christian love stretched out to succor and to lead her to Christ? “The love of Christ constraineth us.” May it constrain every young disciple to do what heart and hand and lips can do to magnify the grace given unto us, as these dear Christian friends did in “The Wanderer’s Home.” And if the little reader does not yet know Jesus, may the thought of HIS kindness to poor Sally lead him to consider what a gentle, loving, faithful Saviour he is neglecting. Ah, dear little reader, Jesus died: yes, died in all the pain and shame, and anguish of the cross for sinners. Think of that! think how he must have loved sinners to go and shed his own blessed heart’s blood on Calvary for them. Oh then, neglect not such a Saviour any longer. Go to him at once. Believe in him. He says, “Come unto ME and I will give you rest.”

Love for the Bible.

A LITTLE Sunday-scholar, in a town in North America, was one day sent by his mother to buy some soap. When the shop woman had weighed it she was about to tear a leaf out of a large old Bible which lay on the counter, and to wrap the soap up in it. “What are you going to do?” said the little boy, with a look of astonishment: — “do you know that that is a Bible?” “What of that,” answered the shop woman; “it will do very well to wrap up this bit of soap.” “Indeed, ma’am,” replied the child, “you ought not to tear up a Bible for such a purpose.” “Why, child,” said the woman contemptuously, “I bought it on purpose to use as waste paper.” “Bought the Bible, on purpose to make waste paper of it!” “Well, if you like to pay what it cost me, you shall have it.” “Oh, thank you, thank you. I will run to mother, and ask her for the money.”

“Mother, mother,” he called out, “do give me some money.” “What for, dear?” “To buy a Bible. The woman in the shop wanted to tear one up, and I told her she ought not to do it; so she said I might buy it of her. Do, mother, give me some money, that I may save it from being torn up.” “My dear child, I cannot pay for it. I have no money.” The little fellow burst into tears, and returned to the shop. “Mother’s too poor; she has got no money to give me; but I do beg of you, do not tear the Bible. Teacher says it is God’s own word.” “Well, don’t cry, child; if you can bring me its weight in waste paper, you shall still have it.” Delighted with this thought, away he ran again to his mother, and told her all that had passed. She gave him all the old papers she possessed; then he went round to their neighbors, and having collected all they could give him, returned to the shop with the bundle of them under his arm. “Here I am, ma’am,” said he, “and here is all the paper I can get.” “Well, stop a bit, my boy, and I’ll weigh it for you.” The shop woman put the Bible in one scale and the paper in the other. The boy fixed his eyes intently on the scale, awaiting the result with breathless anxiety, when, to his inexpressible joy, the paper outweighed the Bible. “It’s mine,” he shouted, with joy, “that Bible’s mine!” He took it up, and went back to his cottage, calling out, “I’ve got it, mother; I’ve got it; I’ve got the Bible!” He would not have been half so happy had he found the richest treasure hid in the field.

Now, my dear little reader, if you possess a Bible, I would ask you whether you prize it as highly as this little boy did? Can you sincerely say, “The words of thy mouth are dearer to me than thousands of gold and silver”? Do you as truly believe as he did, that it is the word of God? Would you be as sorry as he was if you saw any one tearing or injuring this holy book? And if some of you are not yet possessed of one, do you try as earnestly to get one? and do you feel as happy when you have obtained it?

What made this dear child love his Bible so much? It was because his little heart had been attracted by the love of Him, who said, when on earth, “Suffer little children to come unto me, and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of heaven.” It is not only in these loving words that we learn how welcome children are; but we read in the Old Testament, “Those who seek me early shall find me.” Again, “He that findeth me, findeth life;” and many such-like encouraging words. And how blessed it is to know that whether young or old, all are welcome, and none will be cast out that come unto God by him, who died, the just for the unjust, to bring us to God. He left the glory of his father to seek and save those that are lost; and he still says to such, “Come unto me all ye that are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” May the reader find eternal rest through faith in his name (John 1:11, 12; 5:24; 20:31; Acts 10:43; 13:38, 39).

A Gathered Flower.

IT pleased the Lord, during last month, to take to himself a young Christian girl, who during her illness gave a sweet and precious testimony that she had found peace through the “blood of Jesus.”

At the early and interesting age of seventeen, loving and loved, she was cut down as a flower, and “fell asleep in Jesus,” to wake in his likeness and be forever with him. From childhood she had manifested some little concern about Divine truth, had attended a Sunday school in connection with the Wesleyans, and invariably felt pleased to hear about God’s love to poor lost sinners; but alas! what good seed was sown was choked by the enemy, and the trifles of the world, a love of parties, dancing, dress, etc., though not such as many would call excessive. No knowledge of sins forgiven, or salvation obtained; a dread uncertainty whether she was washed in the “blood of Jesus,” proved that she had not yet believed to the salvation of the soul. Amiable, beauteous, and accomplished, she was the delight of her parents and friends, and much admired by those who knew her; and painful indeed was the bereavement when the Lord took her, though the grief was somewhat ameliorated by knowing that lie will shortly come again, and them that “sleep in Jesus” be brought with him, and those that are alive and remain be caught up to meet the Lord in the air, and be reunited to those that have “died in the Lord,” never more to part.

In the spring of the present year, the Lord manifested his love to the dear departed one, while on a bed of sickness, brought his own word home with power to her soul, and sealed her peace, so that she could say without a doubt or a fear, “If I die today or tomorrow I know I shall be saved, for God himself says so.” In other words, she felt that whether living or dying she was the Lord’s; having taking refuge in the only hope set before sinners: the smitten and afflicted One, the holy, sin-bearing Lamb of God.

It pleased the Lord to lay his afflicting hand upon her while on a visit to the writer’s house. She was taken with scarlet fever, and for several weeks lay hovering between life and death; and it was the writer’s happy privilege to read and converse with her of the power and love of God in the salvation of his own soul and that of others, and the blessedness of living in the light of God’s love to us as adopted children. It was on one of these occasions the Lord in mercy appeared for her in his word, and gave her to enjoy that sweet peace that “passeth all understanding.”

For many days she had expressed great anxiety under the word, and an earnest longing to appropriate some of the blessed truths of the gospel to herself; but it was some time before she could take God at his word, and claim salvation as hers. In God’s good time it was so. One morning, after a restless night, which we did not expect she would survive, she feebly asked, “Do you think if I die I shall be saved and go to heaven?” I replied, “It is not for me to think so, it is for you to know it.” She asked, “Can I know it? if I could I should be happy; I want to feel certain about it; must I not do something? must I not pray? must I not strive? “The mind was evidently occupied with something she had read in a magazine, of a person who had been praying, groaning, and striving to get peace for years and could not. I explained that salvation was not in frames or feelings, but in “believing in Jesus;” and as long as she expected to feel “anything in herself, or to do anything, it would lead her away from Christ, who was” God’s righteousness and “the propitiation for our sins.” Her continual cry was, “I want to feel something.” I said once, “Are you not a sinner? Do you feel this? if so, Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners.” Oh, how the devil tried to drive her from Christ by telling her she must do or feel something to be saved, apart from Christ himself and simple faith in him! To show the Divine certainty of salvation, and God’s willingness to pardon, I read portions of John’s gospel, fifth and sixth chapters, and the tenth chapter, which were much blessed; as was also the 53rd of Isaiah and some portions of John’s epistles. Things went on like this for many days, until one morning I went to her bedside, and quietly said to her, “Well, Lizzie, dear, do you feel happy?” Her answer was, “Yes, I do.” A change had evidently taken place. I inquired on what grounds she was peaceful, and was assured she had been enabled to take God at his word, and to cast herself entirely upon his faithfulness, relying upon the efficacy of the “blood of Jesus” to “cleanse from all sin;” and now no longer looking to tears, frames, or feelings, she rejoiced in “Christ Jesus, having no confidence in the flesh.” Her face lit up with joy and heavenly smiles, she exclaimed, “I can believe, uncle! I do believe!” This was enough, the load was lifted of the heart, and “brimful of joy,” I said, “redeeming love had conquered, faith had triumphed, and peace had come through believing.”

As opportunities offered, I strengthened her faith by reading and quoting suitable portions of God’s word, particularly John’s gospel. A little book, entitled, “Peace in believing,” in a measure established her confidence. On one occasion I read portions of John’s epistle, when the tenth verse of the fifth chapter solemnly impressed her mind, and she expressed some grief and surprise that she had ever made it appear that God’s word was untrue by doubting him who could not lie. But all grief was swallowed up in joy when she was enabled to appropriate the eleventh and twelfth verses, “God hath given to us eternal life, and this life is in his Son; he that hath the Son hath life.” Oh, blessed possession; surely in possessing him we possess all things!

For the short time my dear niece knew the Lord she continued happy, confident, and peaceful. Assured of salvation, she rejoiced in it; eagerly listened to the “truth as it is in Jesus,” and meekly received the “engrafted word.” Her chief delight was in singing God’s praises, and that feelingly, reverently, and untiringly. The hymn,

“One there is above all others,

Oh how he loves,”

as expressing her heart’s feelings, was a favorite; also

“Nearer, my God, to thee;”

and that hymn

“My sins were laid on Jesus;”

and another,

“Forever with the Lord;”

which she sang almost daily before she died, expecting (I hope) to realize the desire expressed.

Contrary to the anticipations of her friends and medical attendants, she recovered sufficiently to return home; but at the beginning of August she was taken suddenly worse, expressed a desire to retire to bed, and before her friends could get her upstairs she was taken in a fit, and in forty-eight hours, without having recovered consciousness, “fell asleep in Jesus.” Thus she was not permitted to give what might be termed a dying testimony, but doubtless the Lord was with her.

Oh, what a solemn and awful warning is this sudden departure to those who are unprepared to die. Reader, “as the tree falls so it must lie,” “delays are dangerous,” “procrastination is the thief of time;” seek salvation now, wait not for a deathbed; you may never have one; or should you be permitted to have a dying couch, you may be unconscious and helpless, and in a moment you may die. Oh, solemn thought; trust in Jesus, while life, health, and reason last, for soon they may be gone forever. Listen to God’s word, “Herein is love, not that we loved God, but that he loved us, and sent his Son to be the propitiation for our sins.” The word of God testifies throughout God’s willingness to save you; and John says, “He that believeth not God hath made him a liar.” God forbid that this awful sin should be committed by any reader of this narrative; or if you have done so, God grant you may flee to Christ for the “propitiation,” found “in him.” Death to you will then be the best thing that can happen, next to the coming of the Lord; but, if unsaved, death but seals your eternal doom, and shuts you up in despair and everlasting perdition.

“There is no hope or pardon past,

In the cold grave to which men haste;

But darkness, death, and long despair

Reign in eternal silence there.”

J. W.

Scenes in the Isle of Wight, The Old Irishman.

THE subject of this brief narrative was a native of Ireland, and came to England as servant to a gentleman, who having died, he was left to seek employment as a day laborer. My first acquaintance with him was in the autumn of 1859. I was in the sick ward of the workhouse, passing from bed to bed, either to give a tract or speak a word as the case might suggest, when I observed W. C., who had been brought in since my previous visit. There was a venerable expression in his countenance, with his long gray hair flowing over his wrinkled brow, which at once attracted my attention; and, after asking him how he did, and the nature of his disease, I questioned him as to his state and condition before God as a sinner, and the ground of his confidence in the prospect of eternity. In reply he said, “I hope it will all be well;” but he was evidently occupied with his own doings, not having seen man’s utter ruin and helplessness, as “dead in trespasses and sins.” After dwelling awhile upon this, and his need as a lost sinner, I was enabled to speak to him of the complete salvation in Christ, for all who believe, and read to him Romans 4:5, with John 5:24, dwelling more especially upon the latter; and as the security of the one who heard and believed was presented to him, with deliverance from judgment, and his having everlasting life, the Spirit of God removed the bandage which had hitherto blinded his eyes, and he exclaimed with all the energy which his feeble strength could command, “I see it all now, I never saw it before, we can’t be unborn.” The effect produced through this knowledge of the truth, lit up his countenance with joy, and he gave repeated expression to his full heart, saying, “Praise the Lord, it is all of him.” From this moment he had found peace, trusting alone in the shed blood of Christ. In a few days I saw him again, when he eagerly welcomed me, and testified to the delight of his heart in having Christ as his eternal portion. His deep interest and concern for the welfare of those around him were most striking; his great desire was to see others brought to enjoy the same blessing as he himself possessed.

Another week elapsed and I was at his bedside, when I observed a marked change in his appearance: his eye was less brilliant, and certain symptoms indicated that his “earthly house of this tabernacle” was being taken down; of this he was himself conscious, but there was the absence of all fear.

“Not a cloud above, not a spot within.”

I read to him Isaiah 43:1,2, and repeated that sweet hymn, “I have a home above,” which he fully appreciated; and after commending him to the Lord’s gracious care, I bade him farewell with the thought that I might see him again in the body; but at my next visit I learned that he “fell asleep” eight hours after I left him. His companion in the next bed bore pleasing testimony to his peaceful departure. “Absent from the body, present with the Lord.”

And now, to any who read this paper, let me ask you with all affection, if you are resting upon the same foundation as W. C. Are you trusting in the precious blood of Christ as your alone ground of confidence before God? If so, happy are you; but if otherwise, how sad your condition: you are lost and ruined, “having no hope, and without God in the world.” Oh, the desolation of such a heart! Every rejecter of Christ is unsaved, be he the most moral, or the opposite. Morality will not give you a passport into heaven; to rest upon such a basis, your eternal ruin must be the inevitable consequence, because you thereby virtually deny your condition as a lost sinner; hence, your need of Christ as a Saviour! Fatal delusion, if persevered in. What of your sins? They must be blotted out in order to obtain eternal rest; yet “without shedding of blood is no remission.” You have nothing to do; you can do nothing! “When we were yet without strength, in due time Christ died for the ungodly.” “To him that worketh not, but believeth on him that justifieth the ungodly, his faith is counted for righteousness.” In the faith of your heart look to Jesus who has died and risen again, and life, salvation, and peace are yours forever.

J. M. D.

Faith in God.

For the Young.

A BOY, the son of Christian parents, was lately asked the following question:

“If the Lord Jesus were to come tonight and take your father and mother upon clouds to meet him in the air, do you think you would go too?”

“Yes,” replied the boy, “I do.”

“Why? “inquired his interrogator;” tell me why you expect to go also.”

“Why,” said the boy, “I think it is in the fifth of Romans that God says, ‘Being justified by faith, we have peace with God, through our Lord Jesus Christ.’”

There are many grown-up Christians who would have given a very different reply to this. Some would have said, “Well, I have reason to hope that I have been born again, and therefore trust I should be accepted.” Others who could not even go so far as this have said, “I trust the Lord will have mercy on me when he comes, for I say my prayers, I read the Bible, I go regularly to public worship, and am careful to conduct myself and my affairs in such a way that no fault may be found with me.” But the boy did not look at himself nor within himself for any ground of hope or confidence; he looked simply at what God had said; he rested confidingly in God’s word; it was enough for him that God had said, “Being justified we have peace.” He cast ALL upon God. Self had nothing whatever to do with his security; THAT was settled and certain “through our Lord Jesus Christ.” His finished work upon the cross, where his precious blood atoned for and put away the sins of all who simply believe on him, had decided the question in the boy’s mind, and he could await the coming of the Lord in perfect peace, knowing that there was no charge against him, no wrath, no judgment, because all had been laid on the blessed Lord Jesus. Now, is the young reader in this happy state? If the same question were put to you what would be your reply? Do not put aside the inquiry. Ask yourself solemnly, “Can I give a similar answer?” “The night is far spent, and the day is at hand.” Not an hour passes over your head but the Lord may come. Are you ready? You may be a good boy, as we say, to your parents, teachers, friends—they may have no fault to find with your conduct; you may be very attentive and obedient, kind, gentle, willing to oblige all around you, and surely all this is well and worthy of commendation; but will this avail you when the trumpet sounds? No, no. Nothing less than faith in the Lord Jesus Christ will serve you in that solemn hour. Nothing short of “being justified by faith” will do. Nothing less than being one of those who love the Lord Jesus Christ will be of any service. Only those who are washed from their sins in the blood of Christ will be “caught up in the clouds to meet him in the air.” But do you ask, How can I be washed from my sins in his blood? The answer is, By simply believing what God says about Jesus in his blessed word. He says, “He hath laid on him the iniquity of us all.” He declares that his dear Son “bare our sins in his own body on the tree.” If you believe God, you are saved. To believe God is faith, and so “being justified by faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ.” Then whensoever the Lord may come you will be ready — ready, not because you are better than others, not because of anything you have done or can do, but only because of what the dear Lord Jesus has done for you in shedding his precious blood to put away your sins. And in the meantime, while waiting for God’s Son from heaven, it will be your delight to serve him who loved you and gave himself for you. Walking in communion with him, the fruits of the Spirit, which are “love, joy, peace, long-suffering, gentleness, goodness, meekness, faith, temperance,” will characterize you through his grace; you will grow in the knowledge of himself, your love for him will abound more and more; and when at last you “see his face,” once so marred for us, your joy will be indeed unspeakable, full of glory, and eternal.

But oh, if you do not believe in him, what will you do when “the door is shut”? Be persuaded, dear young reader, go to Jesus NOW.

A Dream of Heaven.

OH! I would dream of heaven again,

‘Twas such a happy dream!

For never had my soul till then

Been charmed by such a theme;

Such sights my eyes had ne’er beheld;

Such sounds I ne’er had heard;

Such sweet emotions ne’er till then

My happy soul had stirred.

Bright visions of the glory-land

With transport filled my soul,

As scenes too pure for mortal eyes

So sweetly o’er me stole;

But the one thought which filled my breast

Was Jesu’s precious love,

The thought which filled each loving heart,

In glory’s land above.

I felt heaven’s joy, I heard its songs,

I saw the mansions fair;

The streets of gold, the beauteous gates

Of pearl, I saw them there;

While happy angels to and fro

On eagle’s pinions flew,

Their faces beaming with delight,

Forever, ever new!

I saw them there, and oh! I saw

The One who died for me,

Now seated on the throne of God,

In glorious majesty.

No look forbidding clothed his brow,

‘Twas love, and only love;

I did not feel a stranger there;

I felt at home above.

I mingled with the radiant throng,

For I could also praise;

Instinctively my tuneful tongue

Caught up the joyful lays;

That song — sweet song — was borne along

With shouts of joy Divine, —

“Thou, thou art worthy, dying Lamb,

The glory all be thine!”

And then they cast their golden crowns,

Each one before the throne;

“Thou, thou art worthy!” still they sung,

No other song was known;

No sorrow there to mar the joy;

No death, no night, no pain;

And not one single discord there

To mar the blissful strain.

I ceased to dream, —and I awoke,

Yet gladness filled my soul;

“Thou, thou art worthy!” still I sung

With joy ineffable;

And still my thankful spirit dwells

With joy upon the theme;

And fond remembrance lingers oft

Upon my heavenly dream.

A. M.

An Infant Preacher.

“AN infant preacher” the young reader will exclaim, “how can an infant ever preach? “Well, I will tell you, for it’s all true, that not only did an infant — a little creature of twenty months old — preach, but she preached such a sermon that it was the means of converting her own father, a man who had heard many sermons from many grown-up preachers to no purpose. This man name was John Dickson, a Scotch farmer, who lived, many years ago, near Edinburgh. He was, like too many, a man who cared nothing for the things that concerned his everlasting peace. Some, even unconverted people, are religious, as it is called; that is, they go to church or chapel, and say prayers, and do many good things, and say no naughty words, and seem very kind to people about them, yet for all that they know nothing of JESUS, nothing of God, and are so foolish as to think that if they go on in this way to the end of their lives they will be saved at last, because they are not so bad as other people in their words and actions. “Well,” you will say, “they must be very foolish,” for I have read over and over again, that God has said, “There is none other name under heaven given among men whereby we MUST be saved,” how then can any one be saved who does not know, Jesus?

How, indeed! Do they really think that God doesn’t mean what he says? Are they so wicked as to suppose that God does not speak the truth? Yes, they must think so, if they hope to be saved by their prayers and their religiousness, because God has said again, “Without shedding of blood” (the blood of Christ) “is no remission,” no forgiveness of sins. Yet they hope to be forgiven when they don’t know anything about the blood of Christ. And besides, God has said, “He that BELIEVETH NOT THE SON shall not see life, but the wrath of God abideth on him.” They do not believe the Son of God, they know nothing about him. God tells them that his wrath abides upon them, yet they say that they hope to be saved.

“Well,” you will say, “it’s quite clear that such people can’t believe what God says, for if they did they would be so frightened at the thought of being under the wrath of God, that they would come to Jesus to escape while there is time.” Very true, so they would. Have you done so? If not, go at once. The Lord Jesus Christ says, “Him that cometh unto me I will in no wise cast out.” And he not only says that, but he asks you to come, for he says again, “Come unto me... and I will give you rest;” as if he said, “Do come, come now; I will give you all you want, all you need, rest from all your fear, rest from all the burden of your sins.” You know how God has said that the blood of Jesus Christ his Son cleanseth us (who believe) from all sin. Well, then, only believe in Jesus, believe what God says about Him, and you will be at once cleansed from all your sin. How wonderful! How kind it was of Jesus to bear “our sins in his own body on the tree.” God says he did; won’t you believe him? Ah! I hope you will, and then you will be saved forever; but if you won’t, you can never be saved at all.

But I must tell you more about this farmer. He was not even religious. If he had been, you know it would not have saved him; but he was not even that, he was a careless, good-for-nothing sort of man, getting on very well in this world’s goods, eating and drinking, and working and sleeping, enjoying the good things God so kindly gave him, without even thanking him for them, or caring to do so.

Well, at last God took away his wife, and there he was, left alone, with no kind wife to look after his house, and to take care of his little baby; for he had a baby girl, and what to do with her he did not know. Somebody must take care of the poor baby, you know, and as he did not know how to do it himself, he was obliged to have a nurse. Now this nurse was a real believer in the Lord Jesus Christ. She knew very well what it was that had brought her to believe. She was quite sure it was not her own heart that had made her love Jesus, for God has told us “the heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked.” Therefore she knew that she would never have come to Christ of her own accord, if it had not been for the grace of God. So, as she felt that she owed everything to the grace of God, she was always talking about it; and sometimes her heart was so full that she could not help exclaiming, “Oh the grace of God!” Now the little baby-girl was always with her kind nurse, day and night; and though we don’t know how soon a baby begins to hear and to understand what is said to it, it is pretty certain that almost the first thing this little one heard when she could hear at all, was something about the grace of God. One day, when she was about twenty months old, and could run about, she was in the parlour with her father, who, as she was his only child, was very fond of her. Several of his ungodly friends were there, too, and they were drinking and smoking, and enjoying themselves in the way that such people do. All at once, just when there was a pause in the conversation, a tiny baby voice exclaimed, “Oh the drace of Dod! Oh the drace of Dod!”

You may guess how astonished everybody in the room was to hear such words in such company, and from such a very little creature; and not knowing how the baby-girl had learned such language, their astonishment was the greater. It seemed as if God had spoken by that infant voice; and so indeed he had. Nor did he speak in vain. Perhaps the tiny preacher hardly knew as yet the meaning of her own words, and most certainly she did not know their power. That little sermon, by that smallest of all preachers, went right home to her father’s heart. Not another word was said. The company was hushed, and soon separated, and the father went away to ponder what he had so strangely heard. The grace of God followed him; nor did it leave him anymore, until it had brought him to Christ. He had been a life-long rebel against “the grace of God.” The words of his little child rang in his ears; grace convinced him of his sin: grace showed him the great Sin-bearer; grace constrained him to flee to Jesus grace gave him power to believe in that precious blood which cleanseth from all sin; “by grace he was saved;” sin no more had dominion over him, “because he was not under law but under grace:” and as long as eternity shall last he will have cause to echo, from an overflowing heart, the words of his baby-girl,

“Oh the grace of God!”

Too Late!

I WAS standing with a friend, in one of the quadrangles of Dublin university, at a time when the usual term examinations were about to commence. It was a little before ten in the morning, —the hour at which the doors of the examination hall are closed. The college bell was sending forth its deep and measured peals, loud enough to be heard to the remotest parts of the city. All was excitement in and about the hall, as students arrived and formed into groups, anxiously speculating upon their prospects. There might be seen many a pale and careworn face, confirming the wise man’s experience, that “much study is a weariness to the flesh;” and there were many, too, who had left nearly all the preparation to the last, and who seemed almost disposed to chide the minute-hand of the clock, as it moved too rapidly towards the eventful hour, and cut short their hasty glances at books and manuscripts, with which they ought to have been familiar beforehand.

The quadrangle was now being rapidly cleared of the busy crowd of gownsmen, for all were directing their steps to the hall. At length the hour of ten arrived — the last warning-bell was rung, and the massive doors were closed.

As we stood without, we saw the Provost and Examining Fellows enter the hall, and no sooner had the last entered than there arrived in the quadrangle a young man in breathless haste. He likewise was come to attend the examination, but alas! it was “too late,” —the doors were closed, and the porters were not at liberty to open them. We learned that he was a young man of considerable promise, and that his prospects in life mainly depended upon the result of his university career. But from a habit of irregularity he had left himself too little time to travel the distance between his home and the college, and, meeting with an accident by the way, when at length he arrived, “the door was shut.” How he afterward fared we did not hear, as business called us elsewhere.

Reader of these lines, you too have prospects before you, and of infinitely greater moment. Is there no danger of your being “too late?” The Lord is coming to take all who are washed from their sins in his blood to himself. Are you washed? Read John 13:8. Or death may come to you at any moment, and if you are not a believer in Christ, “after death the judgment.” Be persuaded ere it is “too late.” Oh the agony of that word “Too late!” Oh the unspeakable distress of those who, at the coming of the Lord, find that it is “too late.” “Behold NOW is the accepted time, behold Now is the day of salvation.”

L. W. I.

The Young Believer's Prayer.

JESUS, thou hast saved my soul,

Keep me ‘neath thy watchful care;

In thy bosom let me rest,

Safe from every hurtful snare.

Keep me, Jesus, I am weak,

And my heart to sin is prone;

Give me power to live to thee,

Blessed Lord, to THEE alone.

When to evil I would yield,

Interpose thy mighty arm;

Should the tempest threaten me,

Quell its fury, stay the storm.

Should I fear to bear the cross, —

Fear to own thy precious name;

Oh revive my feeble love,

Fan, oh fan, the flickering flame!

Should temptation woo my heart,

And the world by smiles allure,

Whisper words of glory to me,

Hold me from the tempter’s power.

Keep me, Jesus, day by day,

Let me take each step with thee,

Proving as the moments fly,

All thy love, so vast and free.

A. M.

Scenes on the Ocean.

I am going, dear children, to tell you something that I witnessed with my own eyes. Several years ago, I made a very long voyage in a large ship; it is not necessary to tell you what places I visited, but one of them, which I shall not easily forget, was the town of St. John’s, in Newfoundland.

There are two things that I dare say you have often seen, which generally come from this place, —the great Newfoundland dogs, and the dried God-fish, which is usually called “salt fish.”

I am not now going to write about the dogs, though I could tell you many things respecting them; such proofs of their faithful attachment to their masters, their patience, industry, and obedience, as would make many children ashamed to hear how much a poor dog might teach them in the way of example; and would also, I hope, convince them how very wicked it is to treat with cruelty an animal so valuable as the dog, or indeed any animal that God has seen good to create. What a shocking character is a cruel child!

I am not going, either, to write about the codfish now, except to tell you that they are caught in great numbers at the place which I have mentioned, on what are called the banks of Newfoundland. Those banks are great heaps of sand, deep under the sea, some of them a good way off from the shore, others quite close to it. During the fishing season, numbers of boats go out from the harbor of St. John’s on every fine day, to take the God. Each of these boats has a little mast, a sail of reddish-brown canvas, and usually two fishermen in it. They are very bold, hardy men, who get their living chiefly by this employment. During the long winters, many of them take their families into the woods, where they, erect houses with the small fir trees, for the double purpose of being near the timber from which they prepare staves for making barrels for the oil taken from the liver of the God-fish, and that they may be surrounded by the wood, to shelter them from the storms of snow. There is very little of the land cultivated, except for potatoes and other vegetables, which they have in great abundance. Oxen and sheep are principally brought from Prince Edward’s Island, which is beautifully fertile, so that the poorer class of people give themselves principally to the business of catching, salting, and drying the fine God-fish, which they send to Europe, and to all parts of the world almost, in abundance.

It was a very interesting and beautiful sight, as the ship approached St. John’s. The harbor of St. John’s, in Newfoundland, is a very noble one, but the opening is so extremely narrow that the greatest caution is necessary in entering it; for there are steep rocks on both sides, and if a ship missed the middle of the passage, it would strike upon the rocks, which would break the wooden bottom or keel of the ship, and let the water in, to destroy the vessel, and drown the passengers. You may be sure there is good care taken to have a steady man to steer the ship; and when it is a large one, there is very great anxiety indeed in getting into the harbor of St. John’s.

I must remind you, too, that a ship at sea is not like a carriage on land, which may be stopped at pleasure. When the sails are spread, and the wind is blowing fresh, the ship will go on in spite of all that man can do. I have told you all this, that you may the better understand what follows.

Our ship was going into that harbor, which we had been looking for a good while, and when we saw it, like a narrow slit in the high dark rocks, at a distance, the man who steered us began to direct the vessel that way, by means of the rudder. I looked about me with a great deal of pleasure, for I could see many of the boats that I have before described upon the broad sea, rolling on the tops of the waves, while the fishermen were busily casting their nets out, and drawing them in with great fishes enclosed. They picked out the good ones, and threw the bad back into the water. I then observed that an immense number of large white seabirds were flying about among the boats, and diving into the water every moment. These birds live on fish; they were watching when the men threw a worthless fish out of their boats, and by suddenly darting after it, they would catch and devour it before it could sink into the depths of the sea. Oh, my dear children, here was something to remind me very powerfully of the Lord’s parable, where he likens the kingdom of heaven to this very thing. The gathering of fishes, good and bad, in a net, and throwing the bad away (Matt. 13:47-50). It was very striking to see how the birds of prey instantly seized every fish that was thrown out of the boats; their destruction was as sure as it was painful, for it must have been painful to the poor fish to be devoured alive by these great birds. But how much more terrible will be the destruction of the wicked at the coming of the Lord Jesus Christ. Read the 49th and 50th verses of the 13th of Matthew. And who are the wicked there spoken of? Turn to 2 Thessalonians 1:7-10, and you will see they are those “that know not God, and that obey not the Gospel of our Lord Jesus Christ.” What a solemn thing it is then to be disobedient to the Gospel of our Lord Jesus Christ. Have you not often heard it? Have you not often, read in Good News how “Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners; “how” he put away sin by the sacrifice of himself”; how “God commandeth all everywhere to repent,” and calls upon them, even you, dear young reader, to “believe in the Lord Jesus Christ,” that so you may be saved by his precious blood. Well, now, I hope that whenever you think about the fishermen on the sea casting out the bad fish, you will remember what the word of God tells us about those that do not obey the Gospel of our Lord Jesus Christ; and if you have already been brought through grace to believe in Christ, may you be stirred up to try and lead others, especially your young playmates and school-fellows to do so too. Tell them what the fishermen do with the bad fish at Newfoundland, and that Jesus says that is just how the wicked will be served when he comes; only instead of being merely cast into the sea, or eaten up, they will be cast into a furnace of fire. But to return to my little narrative.

I have told you that our ship was approaching the entrance of St. John’s harbor: it became necessary to set all the sails, that we might be carried forward very fast, because the wind was fair; and if it changed before we could reach the port, we must have gone out to sea again, which would have been a loss of time, and dangerous. So we got up our sails, and scudded along, looking very grand, no doubt, to the people in the little boats which seemed so pretty to us. It was a lovely day; the sea was rolling its beautiful waters in small regular waves, the breeze blew most refreshingly, and a glorious summer sun was shining brightly, so as to show every little boat that danced upon the waves, and every white bird that fluttered about. I have seen many interesting sights, but one more lively and engaging than this I think I never saw; and while leaning over the side of our tall ship, I felt such enjoyment as I should not have supposed could have been turned in a moment to the greatest terror and dismay.

One of the fishing-boats was a little to the left, in front of us; at that moment the steersman, who had his eye fixed steadily on the harbor’s entrance, still half a mile from us, found it necessary that the ship should be slightly turned in that direction. He knew nothing of the boat: and the men in it, seeing the ship’s head not pointed towards them, never doubted that we should pass them by at a safe distance; so they went on hauling in their nets, quite at their ease. Only think how great must have been my horror, when, being on the side of the ship nearest to them. I found the steersman had altered its course, and we were going on, at a fearful rate, directly in a line towards the boat, which was not bigger, in proportion to the ship, than one of the full stops on this page is to a large capital letter. There was no help for it, the ship went forward, and for the little boat to get away was impossible; you could not have counted ten from the time when the ship was turned till it reached the boat. I shall never forget the looks of the poor terrified fishermen as they’ lifted their eyes up to us. I would gladly have turned my head another way, but could not. I felt quite stiff with terror, and fully expecting to see them in a moment swallowed up by the waves, the dreadful anxiety kept my eye fixed on them. Another instant, and the ship had struck the boat — the water rose, and the boat rose upon it — the water fell, and the boat seemed buried — it grated along the side of the ship, and some strong hooks that were upon our vessel caught hold of the little sail of the boat — the ship rolled forward — the fishermen gave a loud cry, as they felt their boat caught and dragged back, and in one moment more they would have been lost. But the Lord’s arm was not shortened that he could not save even in such tremendous peril as that; and a sudden plunge which our great ship made, instead of sinking the boat, tore the sail quite off, kept it hanging on our hooks, and left the little boat safe, though much damaged, in the open sea.

All this happened in less time than it would take you to walk across a room; for, as I told you, we were making all speed to reach the harbor; and those who have not seen the movement of a large ship through the billows, can have no idea how rapid and how powerful it is. The strength and thickness of a ship are very great indeed; yet, if in its passage it strikes against a rock, or is fixed on a bank of sand, it goes to pieces. You know that the rock and the bank are quite still, therefore you may judge what is the force of the ship’s motion when it can break itself by a touch on them. The waters of the sea roll high, and sweep along in mighty grandeur, bearing the vessel on their surface; and when the wind adds its strength, by filling the sails, nothing can resist the progress of a large ship, unless it be strong enough, as I have said to break the keel to pieces. I cannot give you a description of the size of our vessel, but I can tell you that there were five hundred people living in it quite comfortably and not crowded. Now fancy such a huge thing as this, standing as high out of the water as the ceiling of a common-sized room is from the floor, and then having masts and sails higher than a very tall tree; fancy it, I say, with five hundred people looking down upon a very little boat, just big enough for two men to manage their nets in, hardly a foot above the level of the water, and the top of its mast not nearly reaching to the place where I stood; fancy all this, and you may partly imagine the terrible danger of those two men, and the agony of fear with which we saw what appeared to us the certain and immediate destruction of two fellow-creatures by our means.

So rapid was our course, that before I could look steadily back upon the boat it was a great way off, its masts broken, a fragment of the sail hanging to it, and the poor men, seemingly unable to recover themselves from the terror into which they had been thrown, were gazing after us, —I hope with thankful adoration to HIM whose mighty arm had interposed to save them from so sudden a death, which would have left their children fatherless, and widowed their poor wives, and perhaps have taken them, quite unprepared, into the presence of the Judge of all the earth. I never saw those men again; I do not know their names, nor should I recollect their faces if I were to meet them; but their peril I shall never forget. It reminds me of a greater peril which is approaching with rapid strides, and will soon burst suddenly upon a Christ-rejecting world. As the big ship loomed in the distance, or ever it came near the fishing boat, so this peril I speak of lowers upon the world. As the fishermen may have seen in the distance first the top-sails and then the bull of the great ship, and then, if they looked at all, could see it plainly coming on, so those who have eyes to see can perceive the plain signs of the great peril I refer to coming on so fast that there is not a moment to lose. But as those fishermen, all unconscious of their danger, went on with their business, even when the big ship was close upon them, so it is with the world of the ungodly. And just as those fishermen felt quite safe and quite content till their boat was actually laid hold of by the hooks in the side of the ship of war, so, too, many will go on, in spite of all warning, till the peril that is coming on so fast lays hold of them, and wrecks them forever in the ocean of eternal wrath!

Do you ask, dear young reader, what is the peril I speak of? It is “the day of judgment and perdition of ungodly men.” It is “coming;” God says so. It is “at hand;” God says so. It is “sudden destruction” to those that have refused to believe in Jesus — a destruction which shall come upon them while they are saying, “Peace and safety” —a destruction which “they shall not escape.” God says so.

Do you believe him? Christ is the only ark of safety, the only refuge from the storm. Have you fled to Jesus? have you believed in HIM? If not, wait no longer, delay not a moment. See the big ship bearing down upon the little boat, how fast it rushes on. Just so the day of judgment hastens onward to overwhelm those that have set at naught the wonderful love of Christ, the blessed patience and long-suffering of God. Oh, do not be found among them in that day! “This is a faithful saying, and worthy of all acceptation, that Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners.” You, though so young, are a sinner. “Believe in the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be saved;” yes, saved by his blood — “saved from wrath through him.” “Behold, Now is the accepted time, now is the day of salvation.”

If the fishermen forgot their danger, and went on in sin, after seeing the hand of God so stretched out to deliver them from a dreadful death, will they not be covered with shame, and dumb with conscious wickedness at the great day? And if you neglect the warning contained in this narrative, will it not be the same with you? I have told you of the coming danger, and I have pointed out to you the way of escape through the wonderful love of God, in giving his own Son to die, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life. May we meet in joy in the presence of him who died to redeem sinners, and who lives that those who believe may have life and glory in the world to come.

The Rich Ruler and the Blind Beggar.

For the Little Ones.

READ Mark 10:17 to the end, and you will find, dear children, a very interesting narrative about two men who came to the Lord Jesus Christ when he was in this world going about doing good.

You will find that one of them was a very rich young man who had great possessions and was enjoying them; he was so satisfied with them, and valued them so much, that he would not give them up even to have treasure in heaven. The other was a poor man, so poor that he had to sit as a beggar by the wayside, and what was even worse than that, he was quite blind; as he sat there he was never cheered by seeing the sun’s bright rays, or delighted as you are by admiring the beautiful trees and flowers around him. Neither could he see the kind looks of those who gave him money or food, and you know a kind look will sometimes gladden the heart of a poor person almost as much as what you put into his hand. Always think of this in your little acts of kindness, pity those poor people whom the Lord has afflicted, and when you are able to help those you are sure are in need of it, do so cheerfully, looking at them and speaking to them kindly, just as you would like them to do to you, if you were in trouble instead of them.

So Bartimeus was poor, and blind too; I have no doubt you pity him, and think his life must have been a very sad and lonely one indeed; and I dare say you think how very much rather you would have been the rich young man spoken of in the former part of the chapter; but if you will read it over carefully, you will find that however happy he was in the enjoyment of his wealth, yet he went away from Jesus “very sorrowful” (Luke 18:23); while the poor blind man, whose whole life had been tinged with sorrow, was made so very glad by this same Jesus, that he followed him rejoicing and praising God.

Now I want to talk a little to you about these two men; about how it was that the one should go away grieved, while the other would stay with Jesus, and find happiness in following him. And first let me tell you, that you yourselves will all have to do with this same Jesus at some time or other, and each one of you will either stay with him and find a happy and eternal home in his blessed presence, or else you will go away from him, or rather be sent away, very sorrowful, and never, never see his face any more. I therefore ask you, as I am sure you would much rather live forever with Jesus and his people than with the devil and his angels, to take great notice of the differences we shall find out between these two men You see from this narrative that people can be rich and yet miserable, and you may be quite sure that this young man is not the only person who has found it so. Riches do not make happiness, any more than clouds make sunshine, and it will be a good thing for you to make up your minds to this before you grow up, and have to go out into the world to provide for yourselves in it. You would not like to find out some day, after walking a long distance to buy something, that your purse contained only buttons instead of money; you would wish you had looked into it before starting; and now I do want you, before you start in the world, just to look into your purse, as it were, and see whether what you expect to buy happiness with is really the right kind of money; whether it will enable you to get that joy and peace you hope to find.

Work, by all means, and work industriously, but never think to buy real pleasure with the money you may get, or by-and-by, should your life be spared in this world, your heart must be bitterly disappointed. Be assured the only things that can afford true and solid comfort to you, are such as come from heaven, and do not belong to this world at all; for everything “good and perfect” is from above, as the Bible tells us, and the thing you want to make you really happy is a knowledge of Jesus, God’s beloved Son, as your Saviour and your Friend; and when, by simply believing in him, your sins are washed away, you will have a joy in your soul that this young man’s wealth never gave him; a happiness that none can take away from you.

But, do not on the other hand, make the mistake of supposing that because Bartimeus was poor, Jesus was more willing to bless him than he would have been to bless the rich ruler; Jesus never disliked rich people just because they were rich. Many people think that poverty makes them more acceptable to God, and brings them nearer to him; and so they say, “It is through much tribulation we are to enter the kingdom; and so, as we have much suffering in this world, we shall escape it in the next.” Now this way of talking is very foolish and wrong; for although Jesus himself said that his people should enter the kingdom through much tribulation, he never said that all those who so suffered would enter the kingdom. I might tell you that if you came to my house you must go down a certain street, but I should not mean to say that every person who went down that street was going to my house; and so as to going to be with Jesus, poverty and trial cannot cleanse you, or make you fit for his presence, for God has said that “without shedding of blood there is no remission of sins,” and because Jesus knew this, he came into this world and shed his own precious blood, that whosoever believeth in him, whether rich or poor, “might have everlasting life.”

So poor blind Bartimeus did not get a blessing because he was poor, nor did Jesus send away the rich gentleman because he was not poor; indeed, he did not send him away at all. But I should like you to read and think about this yourselves, and try to find out how it was that the rich man was so sad, and the poor one so glad, after meeting with the Lord Jesus; and if spared, I hope to say a little more to you on the subject in another number of Good News.

W. T.

From the Life of George Whitefield.

IN the year 1740, the members of a drinking club had a negro boy attending them, who used to mimic people for their diversion. The gentlemen bid him mimic Mr. Whitefield, which he was very unwilling to do; but they insisting upon it, he stood up and said, “I speak the truth in Christ, I lie not; unless you repent, you will all be damned” (Luke 13:3). Through this unexpected speech, the club was entirely broken up.

Not all the gold of all the world,

And all its wealth combined,

Could give relief, or comfort yield

To one distracted mind;

‘Tis only to the precious blood

Of Christ the soul can fly,

There only can a sinner find

A flowing, full supply.

Oh happy news! Oh joyful news!

The precious, precious blood

Of Christ, can bring the sinner nigh,

And give him “peace with God.”

Gold could not give the heart relief

The malefactor craved;

Ah, no! ‘twas Christ, the Christ of God,

That dying sinner saved;

Faith’s view of him who bleeding hung

A victim by his side,

He saw, he knew, he cried, he heard,

His soul was satisfied.

Oh happy news! Oh joyful news! &e.

Oh what can equal joy Divine!

And what can sweeter be

Than knowing that this Christ is mine

To all eternity.

Safe in the Lord, without a doubt,

By virtue of the blood;

For nothing can destroy the life

That’s hid with Christ in God.

Oh happy news! Oh joyful news!

A Child's Rebuke.

A BAKER who was a believer in the Lord Jesus Christ, was one day hurrying along with a tray in his arms, when just as he passed through a side door he accidentally ran against his little girl a child of about three years of age. Annoyed and irritated at the moment because he had as he supposed hurt the little one, he shouted in a loud, angry voice, “Get out of the way!” and passed on. More frightened at her father’s stentorian shout than by the trifling accident, the child went whimpering down the yard, and meeting her aunt, was asked if she was hurt. “Ess,” replied the little creature, “but Jesus didn’t ‘peak in dat way to ‘ittle child’en — he took ‘em up in his arms, he did!” What a rebuke from the mouth of a child! How forcibly this incident illustrates a fact so often insisted on, namely, that children are far more observant of the inconsistencies of their elders than is commonly supposed. Here is an instance in which a child, though so young, seems to have known intuitively that that conduct was directly opposed to the ways of him in whom her father believed. Incapable of reasoning, she nevertheless saw at a glance that the disciple was not like his Master, in this instance, at all events, and if as her reason (now but in its dawn) strengthens day by day, she continues to compare what strikes her attention in the example of those around her with the standard Christ presents to her young and artless mind, who shall say where the results will end? An impression once strongly made in early childhood is seldom, if ever, effaced. It may seem to be forgotten days, weeks, years may elapse, and the incident may seem to have passed entirely away from memory, but it will return again and exercise an influence when least expected.

It is not only of this incident nor of this child that we speak particularly, but of the children of Christian parents in general. This little one and the simple but really beautiful conclusion she drew is but a sample of what may be looked for in those children of believers, who are brought up in the nurture and admonition of the Lord. Christ, rightly presented, forms to the impressible mind of a child, a picture, a standard, so beautiful, that we must not wonder if other objects when brought, as in this instance, into striking contrast, look very dark. “Jesus didn’t ‘peak in dat way to ‘ittle children.” A dark patch on a white background looks not only very black, but also very prominent. The more often and the more faithfully a child is spoken to about Jesus, and the more frequently his lovely character and ways are set before the little one, the more prominent and striking to the child’s mind will be any decided departure from that standard in word or deed by its teachers.

We all know that example outweighs precept in most cases, but especially here. The child has a nature already prone to choose the evil and refuse the good; how immense then must be the influence of inconsistency on the part of those whose position in relation to their child gives added weight to all they do, while their very teachings make those inconsistencies the more palpable and striking! How often do we hear of parents who mourn for years the evil courses of some unconverted son or daughter. Their prayers seem unheeded, their remonstrances are vain, their last moments are embittered by the reflection that the beloved one is in the broad road to eternal ruin, and their gray heads, it may be, descend in sorrow to the grave, because they seem to have importuned the throne of grace in vain.

“Has God forgotten to be gracious?” No, Frequently we read of instances in which long after the sorrowing ones have fallen asleep, the answer to their prayers and tears has come, but why not before?

No doubt

“God moves in a mysterious way,

His wonders to perform,”

and giveth no account of his matters to any. But is it not to be feared that in some, perhaps too many, cases of this description, the parents were but reaping where they sowed? We have to do with a God of infinite grace. We have promises so broad and precious that “nothing shall be impossible to him that believeth.” How is it, then, that we find so very few Christian households? “Is there not a cause?” Can it be in Him who is willing that all should be saved? (1 Tim. 2:4). Has not HE a Father’s heart? Does Christ sympathies in the sorrows of his people? Is it nothing to him that one whom he has bought with his own blood mourns over an entire family of children dead in trespasses and sins, and passing one by one out into the world to be hardened in iniquity? Ah, the cause cannot be in him. But in how many ways we may trace it to ourselves.

Some Christian parents there are who, for the sake of a little quiet at home, especially on the Lord’s-day, send their children to a Sunday-school, of which they know nothing more than that it professes to be a place for religious teaching of some sort, but where, for aught they know or seek to know, the teacher of their child may be an unconverted person! They sit at home at ease reading the Word, while their poor child, an outcast from the blessings they enjoy, is listening at best to rubbish, associating in class and in the street with the children of ungodly parents, and witnessing almost every form of evil in word and deed. A few questions are asked when the child returns, a verse or two has been learned, a ticket for good conduct is brought home, and the parents are satisfied. How unconsciously are they imitating those of old who, thinking of themselves, would have sent away the poor children. This did not Jesus. “He took ‘em up in his arms, he did.”

“The night is far spent and the day is at hand.” May Christian parents consider this subject in the light of his presence whom they shall shortly see face to face. May the principle involved in little Hetty’s artless reproof go home to every Christian’s heart. Inconsistencies vary endlessly in shape and degree, but here is a principle and a truth which will apply to them all, “Jesus didn’t ‘peak in dat way to ‘ittle children; HE took ‘em up in his arms, he did.”

Jesus said,

“Suffer the little children to come unto Me.”

Mark 10:13-16.

The Young Bricklayer.

For Young Believers.

IF, when earthly relationships are dissolved by death, those who remain fondly cherish the remembrance of departed friends, how much more so is it with believers in whose hearts God has formed those spiritual ties and affections which, like their divine Author, will endure forever? If the former can enter into the meaning of the well-known line,

“Though lost to sight, to memory dear;”

the latter can add―

“Not lost, but gone before;”

and, while retracing, with a mixture of joy and

sorrow, past intercourse with those

“Whose pilgrim days are done,”

anticipate the time when they

“Shall meet them on that shore

Where partings are unknown.”

Among the number of now departed saints with whom it was the writer’s privilege and happiness once to hold fellowship, was a young bricklayer, named A―. At the time of his conversion he was the only youth in the village who was known to have believed; and when the writer, who was nearly of the same age, was soon after brought to Jesus, a mutual attachment was formed between them; and as both realized the truth of that saying, “A man’s foes shall be they of his own household,” and met with the same opposition from the world, they were bound together in real Christian brotherhood, and walked in the fellowship of the Spirit, “as being heirs together of the grace of God.” But ere long a family circumstance caused A.’s removal to London, and it was while he was there being further instructed in his trade that the following event took place.

At the completion of a contract, a supper was provided for the workmen, and at the appointed hour they assembled to partake of it. When it was ended, A. rose to depart; but as some who hated him for the sake of Christ, and who had frequently hidden his tools because he would not join them when they tossed for beer, etc., had agreed to make use of the occasion to put, what they called, his Methodism to the test, he was not only prevented, but given to understand that none would be allowed to leave till they had sung a song.

The young bricklayer was much tried, but as the master was unavoidably absent, remonstrance was useless, and he resumed his seat. The one who sat next him soon commenced the singing, and shortly after the song was ended, A.’s name was announced. Upon his refusal to comply, some wished him to give the company a song in a psalm tune; and when he again refused, others, amidst much laughter, asked him to sing “one of the songs of Zion;” but to this he also objected. He was then ironically requested to make a speech, and to this he assented, and spoke in substance as follows: — “My friends,” said he, while the tears trickled down his cheek, “I will address you from the chorus of the song which has just been sung, and in which most, if not all, of you have joined. You cannot be aware of the solemn words you have uttered. You have been singing,

‘Come, let us merry be, and drive away all sorrow,

For perhaps we may not meet again tomorrow;’

and the last line is indeed true, for you know not what shall be on the morrow. Even this night your souls may be required of you; and should it be so, where would tomorrow find you? “He was about to proceed, when he was interrupted by cries of “Put him down;” “We have had enough;” “Let us subscribe, and send him to college,” etc.; and had not the representative of the master interfered on his behalf, he would have been roughly handled, and forcibly ejected from the room. When order was restored, A. wished once more to depart; and as he was such a disagreeable fellow, and was spoiling the pleasure of the evening, he was allowed to do so.

Young Christians, unto you it is given, in the behalf of Christ, not only to believe on him, but also to suffer for his sake; and though it is frequently said by those who are vainly trying to “make the best of both worlds,” that suffering for Christ is an expression which has no reference to this enlightened age, the Holy Scriptures affirm that we must “through much tribulation enter into the kingdom of God;” and that “all that will live godly in Christ Jesus shall suffer persecution.” The young bricklayer found it so, both at home and in the midst of his associates; and if you, like him, have grace to live Christ under the parental roof, and to witness for Christ in your various spheres and callings, you will find that the offense of the Cross has not ceased; and that as in former times he that was born after the flesh persecuted him that was born after the Spirit, even so it is now. If those by whom you are surrounded do not plot against you, they will try you in a variety of ways; and, however hard it may be to flesh and blood to be taunted and laughed at, or trying to human nature to be reviled and evil spoken of, you must not shrink from treading the path of discipleship, nor be ashamed to confess whose you are and whom you serve. Oh, watch against the first step in inconsistency of conduct, and against the least compromise of Christian principles. Be not like the worldly minded Christians of these degenerate days, whose consciences seem to be as elastic as a piece of India-rubber, who are as unstable as water; and who, while they say, “Lord, Lord,” attempt to throw truth tastefully into the background whenever it would involve them in suffering, shame, or loss; but “adorn the doctrine of God our Saviour in all things,” and give none occasion to the adversary to speak reproachfully. If you yield to the wishes of those who so sorely try you, you will not only dishonor the Lord and wound your own souls, but your enemies will rejoice, and say, “Ah, so would we have it;” whereas, if you remain true to Christ, you will be counted worthy to suffer shame for his name.

But while you seek to follow the Lord fully, pray for wisdom and discretion, that you may be enabled to exhibit the meekness and gentleness of Christ, in connection with a firm and unflinching attachment to his name; otherwise you will give unnecessary offense, and cause the way of truth to be evil spoken of. Learn of him who was meek and lowly in heart; for though the manifestation of a meek and quiet spirit will not remove the enmity of the carnal mind, nor save you from the hard speeches and biting jests of those who hate the image of Christ whenever they see it reflected, it will keep you from suffering for evil doing. And should you still be reproached for the name of Christ, happy are ye; for the Spirit of glory and of God resteth upon you; on their part he is evil spoken of, but on your part he is glorified. And should these pages meet the eye of any who, like A.’s fellow workmen, are vainly seeking to drive away the sorrow which sin brought into the world, by reveling’s and such-like, the writer would affectionately remind them that the pleasures of sin are but as the crackling of thorns under a pot, and that the end of such mirth is heaviness. You may indeed refuse to hear the word of expostulation, but is such conduct consistent with those who have immortal souls, whose destiny is eternity? And suppose you so close your ears and harden your hearts that the voice of friendly warning is for the moment lost upon you, it will not always be so. When the roll which Baruch wrote from the mouth of Jeremiah, and which contained all the words of the Lord which He had spoken unto him, was cut with a penknife and consumed in the fire that was on the hearth, and that without the least emotion; another roll was written in which was found all the words of the book which Jehoiakim, king of Judah, had burned in the fire; and there were added besides unto them many like words. And so, dear fellow-sinners, if you persist in your present evil course, and continue to hate instruction and despise reproof, the sin of rejecting the truth will be added to all your other sins, and be the most bitter ingredient in your future cup of never-ceasing misery and torment. Be persuaded then to ponder the question which the young bricklayer put to those whose good he sought, and whose spiritual welfare lay near his heart. Before tomorrow dawns the Lord may come, and the moment which will be to those who are Christians the full fruition of all their hopes, will be the forerunner of everlasting destruction to all who believed not the truth, but had pleasure in unrighteousness. Or should he still delay his coming, you may be in eternity; and if you depart this life in your present condition, your laughter will be turned into mourning, and your mirth into the wailings of despair. Oh! shut your eyes no longer to the danger that awaits you, but give heed to the Divine warning, “The wages of sin is death,” and listen to the gracious declaration, “The gift of God is eternal life, through Jesus Christ our Lord.” Yes, “hear, and your soul shall live.”

God Looks Down on Children.

FROM the glorious heaven,

Where the angels are,

God looks down on children,

Seeth them afar.

Heareth all they ask for,

All the night and day.;

Watches like a father,

All their work and play.

As a father giveth,

So he gives them bread;

Saves them out of danger,

Watches by their bed.

Tell all little children

Of his watchful care;

That he loves and pities

Children everywhere.

Indian Sarah.

For the Young.

POOR SARAH was an Indian woman, brought up in heathen darkness, without one of those advantages which the young readers of Good News enjoy. She had never heard of Jesus, as you, dear young reader, have so often done; and long after she was grown up, she lived as having no hope and without God in the world. When she became a woman, she was married to a man, who like herself, knew nothing of the one true God. He treated her very unkindly, and she became very unhappy. To use her own simple language, “I go sorrow, sorrow all day long. When night come, husband come home angry, then I think, Oh, if Sarah had a friend! but Sarah have no friend. I no want tell neighbor I got trouble; that only make it worse; so I be quiet, tell nobody, only cry all night and day for one good friend. One Sunday, good neighbor come and say, Come, Sarah, go hear about God. So I called my children, tell them stay in house while I go. When got there, minister tell all about Jesus, how he was born in stable, how he suffer all his life from bad man, and at last die for sinners on great cross; how his precious blood cleanse from all sin every one that believes in him; how he rise again from the dead, and go up in heaven, and so be always sinner’s Friend, if sinner believe in him. He say, too, ‘If you have trouble, go to Jesus, the best friend in sorrow; he know much sorrow. His love cure your sorrow he bring you out of trouble, make you happy in himself; give you peace.’ So when I go home, I think great deal what minister say — I think, ‘This the friend I want — this the friend I cry for so long, —poor ignorant Sarah never heard so much ‘bout Jesus before.’ Then I try hard to tell Jesus how I want such a Friend, but oh, my heart so hard, can’t feel, can’t pray, can’t love Jesus, though he so good! This make me sorrow more and more. When Sunday come once more, want to go again. Then I sit down on the door and hear minister tell how bad my heart is, deceitful ‘bove all things and desp’ rately wicked,’ no love God, no love Jesus, no love prayer. So then, I see why can’t have Jesus for friend — got bad heart. Don’t know what to do; can’t make heart better if try ever so much. Minister say too, ‘Ye must be born again,’ can’t do this either; can’t do anything! When got home, feel very, very sorry for bad heart. When go to bed, keep thinking all night what that mean, Ye must be born again.’ When husband go to work, I run to my good neighbor to ask her if Bible say so too. Then she read me where that great man go to Jesus by night, ‘cause afraid to go in day-time, and I think he just like Sarah, got bad heart, yet Jesus did not turn him away. No, Jesus tell him, ‘As Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, even so must the Son of man be lifted up, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish but have eternal life.’ So Sarah feel comforted, and ask neighbor what I do. She tell me go to Jesus. When come in home, poor Sarah kneel down and tell Jesus all about bad heart — can’t bear bad heart, can’t make it better, can’t stay away from him; must come to him just as I am, can’t do anything. So Sarah go many Sundays to hear about the Lord Jesus Christ, and every day to hear good neighbor read Bible. At last Sarah believe what God say about Jesus and his precious blood, and God make all my mind peace. Sarah love Jesus, love pray to him, love tell him all her sorrows. God take away sorrow and make soul all joy. God did it all, poor Sarah do nothing.”

Thus poor Indian Sarah was, through the grace of God, brought to Christ, and gave all the glory to him. Her desire was now to learn more of him who loved her and gave himself for her. She could not read, and she was not satisfied, as some Christians are, to wait from one week’s end to the other to hear about him. She wanted to learn of him from day to day. Her first care was to procure a Bible. There was no kind friend to give her one, she had no money, and she dared not ask her unkind husband to help her. But her love for the truth found itself a way. “I make great many brooms, and get Bible for them. Then I go ask good neighbor if she teach me to read, and she say, Yes. Then I go many days, learn letters, pray God all the while to help me learn to read his holy word. So I learn spell out good words in Bible. So every day I take Bible, tell children that be God’s word, tell them how Jesus died on cross for sinners, then make them all kneel down and pray God lead them all to believe in Jesus. Pray for husband, too; oh, how I sorry for him till he die! And now Sarah live a poor Indian widow for great many long years, always found Jesus Friend, Husband, ‘Brother born for adversity:’ and he make me willing to live in this bad world if he see right, and give me good hope through grace of everlasting glory, when he come to take me home.”

Poor Indian Sarah! What a lesson her simple story tells to believers, young and old. She knelt down with her children, prayed for them in their hearing, and taught them of him who “came into the world to save sinners.” And this she did every day. Her love for Christ, and her desire to learn of him overcame all difficulties. She labored hard to get a Bible, and she labored hard to learn to read it. And she had other work to do besides. While her husband was alive, she had both to attend to the house and family, and also to go into the field to hoe the corn, as Indian women do. Yet she could find time to learn to read, and then to teach her children about Jesus. And when her husband was dead,’ she had, if possible, to work harder still for her living. She used to carry sand in bags to the village, and sell it for food. Sometimes she took grapes and other kinds of fruit; and as she went along she took little notice of anything except children, of whom she was very fond, and whom she seldom passed without an affectionate word of exhortation to believe in Jesus Christ, to be good and obedient to parents, to learn to read God’s precious word, etc., often adding to these kind words, a bunch of grapes or an apple. Thus she gained the affection of many a little one; and we may well hope that some of them will be, through grace, her crown of rejoicing “in that day.” What became of her own children we are not told, perhaps they all died young; and it may be that the remembrance of them over whom she had so often prayed, made children dear to her gentle, loving heart; and so, though she was so poor, she must needs give them her grapes and apples, and words of kindness, too, telling them good news about the good and gracious Saviour, and trying to win them to him who “took little children into his arms, and laid his hands on them, and blessed them.” Dear young reader, do you not think that poor, kind, Indian Sarah deserves to be remembered by children? Well, because we think so too, we have written the simple history of this children’s friend in Good News; that you, in thinking about Indian Sarah, may see how the grace of God brought her to Jesus, how she went to him just as she was, how she could do nothing to get better, but by simply believing in him was saved at once, and washed from all her sins. And then, how after that she believed, she tried day by day to learn more about Jesus, and to teach others also; trying also all the while to “adorn the doctrine of God our Saviour in all things.” And this she found grace to do, because she “continued in prayer, and watched in the same with thanksgiving,” walking and talking with Jesus by the way. A friend once asked her how she managed to carry such heavy loads. Her answer was, “Oh, when I get great load I go pray God to give me strength to carry. So I go on thinking all the way how good God is. He gave his only Son to die for poor sinner like me; how good Jesus is; he suffer so much to save me, and how his love ever follow me still. So these sweet thoughts make my mind full of joy — I never think how heavy sand-bag be to my old back!”

Many other things we might tell you about this dear Christian, how she was kind to those that were unkind to her; faithful to her fellow-Christians, patient amid all her trials, grateful to all who sought to do her good, while yet tracing every kindness she received to the hand of her heavenly Father; “not slothful in business, fervent in spirit, serving the Lord,” and occupied with him from morning till night. So she went on, until at last, just exactly fifty years ago, the Lord was pleased to take her to himself, and poor Indian Sarah fell asleep in Jesus. Her poor body lies buried far away over the ocean, in the country called Connecticut, in America, where she lived and died; her spirit has exchanged its earthly tabernacle, and the poor little cabin in which she dwelt contentedly so long, for the blessed presence of Christ. And in a little while, when the trust sounds, she, with all who believe, will be raised or changed, and caught up in clouds to be

“Forever with the Lord.”

The Blind Girl and Her Bible;

Or, Reading the Scriptures with the Lips.

MANY years ago — says a preacher of the gospel — I resided at Genéve, and every summer I took a journey into the adjoining suburbs, and went from village to village, and from house to house, proclaiming the gospel of God’s grace.

While on such a journey in the summer of the year 183–, I came to a little cottage in the neighborhood of Dijon. In the low, spacious kitchen, I found a middle-aged woman busy ironing, a little boy playing upon the ground, while a girl of about nineteen years of age, with a most cheerful countenance, was sitting by the window plaiting straw. She did not look up when I walked in; and when I had observed her more closely, I saw that she was blind.

After a few general remarks had passed between us, I began to tell them the story of the Lord Jesus, his love, his sufferings, and his death. They listened with the greatest attention, and tears rolled down the cheeks of the blind girl. All that I told them was quite new to them, because they had never heard of the love of Jesus, and of his finished work. The following days I visited the poor cottagers several times; and Jesus, the Good Shepherd, gave me new cause of thankfulness, that he used me as the instrument to bring the mother, as well as daughter, to true peace of heart.

Poor, blind Marie! Oh, how she was touched when I spoke of him who opened the eyes of the blind, how blind Bartimeus sat by the wayside begging, and how he called to Jesus of Nazareth and received sight! An irresistible desire to have her eyes opened, also, filled her heart from that moment; although it was not merely to see the blue heavens, or the countenance of her mother, or the friendly smiles of her little brother, that she desired to have sight; no! it was because she earnestly desired to be able to read the words of Jesus.

There lived at that time a God-fearing man in Dijon, who had gathered a few blind ones around him, whom he taught to read and work. I visited this man, told him of Marie, and arranged with him that she should come for an hour every morning to learn to read. I gave her a Bible, the letters of which were printed high, so that the blind could feel them with their fingers.

That was joy when she went out the following morning, led by her little brother, and with her precious Bible in her hand, to take her first lesson. But, alas! how she was disappointed. Through continual straw-plaiting, her fingers had become so hard that she could not well feel the letters. Whatever way she tried, it did not succeed. However, one day when she was busy cutting off the ends of straw, the thought struck her, to cut the hard skin off her fingers, so that new, soft skin should grow on. And positively she did it, hover much pain it caused her. But, alas! also this did not help. There was not enough feeling in her fingers, and, moreover, she had to go on plaiting straw because she depended on it for her livelihood.

This was a bitter disappointment for poor Marie! Day after day she wept, saying, she would so much like to read the word of God.

At length she said, “God has opened the eyes of my soul; ought not I then to bless and praise him?”

But what should she do now with her new Bible? She resolved to return it, so that another blind girl who had not such hard fingers as she had, might learn to read out of it, and that in it she might find the words of life. And pressing the precious book to her bosom, she fell upon her knees, and prayed, “O precious Lord Jesus, thou who lovest the poor, and openeth the eyes of the blind, I thank thee that thou hast not hid thyself from a poor blind girl. And as I cannot read thy heavenly words, I beseech thee that thou wilt whisper them to my heart continually, so that my mind may not be so dark as my eyes. I can hear thy blessed word; and thou knowest that I love thee.” She then put the opened Bible to her lips to kiss it. And, oh, what joy! The tender lips could plainly distinguish the high printed letters. With a shout of delight she followed the lines until she had read a whole page. Everything was plain and easy to her. The lips could do what the hard fingers were unable — they could read.

Twelve months later I again visited Dijon. The low kitchen was not yet altered, but the happy countenance of Marie shone with heavenly joy. She was sitting on an old chair with a straw basket at her feet reading her dear Bible. It was an affecting scene, to see that poor blind girl so rejoiced.

There was, as it were, no more darkness to her. “N’est-il pas heureux?” she said, with her beautiful, well-sounding voice, “n’est-il pas heureux de bailer ainsi les douces paroles pendant que je les lis?” that means: “Is it not nice to kiss the lovely words while I am reading them?” Happy girl!

How gracious has the Lord been to her! He heard her prayer, and filled her heart with gladness. Oh, that all my readers would value the Bible as she did!

Jesus Left the Glory to Seek and Save the Lost.

LET me stay awhile, remembering

All that wondrous love of God —

How the Lord, the King, was hanging

On the cross with streaming blood:

From the Father’s bosom come

There to take the sinner’s doom.

Love that fills the heart of Jesus,

There upon the cross was shown;

Love for me — love told by sorrows,

Such as none have ever known —

Curse and wrath and smiting fell

On the Son God loved so well.

God forsook that Son beloved,

Left to darkness and to death.

Why, my God, am I forsaken?

Hear the bitter words he saith―

He was dying — and for me

All that grief, that agony.

Yes, my sins on thee were lying,

Thou didst suffer all for me;

All that I deserved to suffer

God the Father laid on thee;

Smote the Son he loved so well,

Thus to save my soul from hell.

How could Jesus love so deeply

Such a sinner as I am?

He, my Shepherd, died to rescue

Me, his foolish, wandering lamb;

He bought me who sinned and strayed,

And his blood the price he paid.

Loss of all for me he suffered,

Gave his all for such as I;

Shall I not give all for Jesus;

Ready for his name to die?

Lord, I give my heart to thee,

Thine, and thine alone to be.

All my old self dead with Jesus,

Crucified, no more to reign;

Now to Christ, not self-belonging,

Losing all himself to gain;

Not my will, but his to do,

Showing thus my love is true.

Blessed Jesus, lead me onward,

Hold my hand, and keep me near;

Let me live to please thee only,

Heeding not what happens here;

Thinking of that glorious place,

Where my eyes shall see thy face.

Good News for Young and Old: Volume 10 (1868)

Table of Contents

Hannah's Firstborn.

"Bread Cast Upon the Waters Found After Many Days."

The Ungrateful Child.

"The Saviour's Love."

"Children Young in Years and Tender."

The Dying Robber.

The Tried One.

The Proud Little Heart Broken.

The Rescued Skater.

Where will you Spend Your Eternity, Part 1?

Where Will You Spend Your Eternity Part 2?

Mick Healy, the Bible Reader.

"None Other Name."

The Snow Flake.

"Massa, You no Understand it."

The Child's Inquiry.

He Affectionate and Obedient Child.

Letter to the Little Ones.

The Hungry Man's Dream.

"Jesus Only."

Wounding to Heal.

"'Tis All."

Wait and See the End.

Scenes in the Isle of Wight, the Dying Sergeant.

Seed Sown by a Little One.

"My Shepherd."

The First Dawn of Light at Evening Time.

A Way of Escape.

Little Mary's Hymn.

Israel's Feast.

"He said so."

The Converted Infidel.

The Crucifixion.

The Conscientious Grocer.

Sandy Wright and the Puir Orphan.

The Dying Child.

The Indian Chief's Appeal.

The Early Taken.

The Shower of Rain

The Falling House.

The Dying Child, for Sunday Scholars.

Comfort in Sorrow.

The Return of the Lost Son.

Wayside Ministry.

Little Minnie.

The Power of God unto Salvation.

A Happy Death.

A Lamb of the Fold Part 1;

Scenes in the Isle of Wight, The Prayers of a Mother Answered.

The Little Blind Girl.

The Garret Home.

The Sewer on Fire.

A Lamb of the Fold Part 2;

"Today, While it is Called Today."

The Heart.

Scenes from Real Life.

"If I Die as I am, What will Become of Me?"

The Falling House.

The Orphan Stranger; or, Flower and Fruit.

The Little Persian Girl.

"I am Quite Weary."

"Dumb Within."

Is the Sting Gone?

The Wanderer's Home.

Love for the Bible.

A Gathered Flower.

Scenes in the Isle of Wight, The Old Irishman.

Faith in God.

A Dream of Heaven.

An Infant Preacher.

Too Late!

The Young Believer's Prayer.

Scenes on the Ocean.

The Rich Ruler and the Blind Beggar.

From the Life of George Whitefield.

A Child's Rebuke.

The Young Bricklayer.

God Looks Down on Children.