THE CHRISTIAN S0N.
RELIGION WITHOUT BIGOTRY; ZEAL WITHOUT FANATICISM; LIBERTY WITHOUT LICENTIOUSNESS.
Volume XXX.
SUFFOLK, VA., FRIDAY, NOVEMBER ‘23, 1877.
Number 47,
BESIDE A WZE, AND DINNA FRET,
Is the road very dreary?
Patient yet I
Rest will be sweeter if thou art weary,
And after night coroeth the morning cheery,
Then bide a wee, and diuna fret.
The clouds have silver lining,
Don’t forget;
And though he’s hidden, still the Fun is shining
Courage! instead of tears and vain repining,
Just bide a wee, and dinna fret.
With toil and cares unending
Art beset ?
Bethink thee, how the storms from heaven de
scending
Snap the stiff oak, but spare the willow bend
ing,
And bide a w'ce, and dinna fret,
Grief sharper sting doth borrow
From regret;
But yesterday is gone, and shall its sorrow
Unfit us for the present and the morrow
Nay ; bide a wee, and dinna fret.
An over-anxious brooding
Doth beget
A host of fears and fantasies deluding ;
Then, brother, lest these torments be intruding,
Just bide a wee, and dinna fret.
—-Leisure Hour.
election^
PERFECT PEACE.
Never to walk again! • Was it
strange that life looked dark aud
wearisome to Lillie Allen with those
words sounding in her ears J Only
eighteen years old, her school course
just completed, with a heart lull of
hopes and plans for the future, doom
ed for a lifetime in abed or chair;
never to walk, even as far as the win
dow on the other side of the room.
Could anything be more tryjnig to an
active, lively girl ?
And a single moment hqd brought
all this sorrow. A merry party of
classmates had -gone out to celebrate
their graduation at the village acade
my by a picnic excursion to Glen
Crystal. The sunshine ami the spark
ling wat^r were not '^Jfeliter than
their faces as, laughii. and joking,
they clambered over the rocks in
search of ferns and mosses. But a
single careless step backward, as a
companion called to her and in the
midst of the sunshine aud merry
making, Lillie lay helpless and uncon
scious upon a ledge twenty feet below.
That was two months ago, and during
all those weeks she had lain, weary
aud often suffering most intensely,
but still expecting soon to be up
again. But this morning, this bright
August inorniug, the doctor had pro
nouuccd the terrible words that she
would never be able to use her feet
agaiu. lviudly and tenderly had the
words been spokeu, and the hope had
been expressed that in a few weeks a
chair might be procured iu which
she could be made comfortable. Fath
er had stood by her bed with a sor
rowful face while the doctor talked,
and only said, “My precious child 1”
as ho kissed her. Mother had come
iu, and kneeliug with her arms clasp
ed around her child’s neck, had wept
long aud bitterly. But still Lillie lay
silent and wondering.
The hours passed slowly by, the
dainty dinner prepared for the invalid
was sent away untasted. She could
see through the window as she lay,
but she did not notice the pure Au
gust lilies that blossomed so beauti
fully' by the path. The fragrance of
lily aud honeysuckle wafted through
the window by the gentle breeze were
all unheeded as those words echoed
in her ears again and again unceas
ingly, “Kever walk! never walk!
never! never 1”
But now, as the shadows lengthen
ed aud the afteruoon was drawing to
a close, the thought beguu to take a
more definite shape iu her mind. She,
realized more fully what the burden
was that had come to her young life,
aud, turning her face to the wall, she
felt the hot tears rill down her cheeks
upou the pillow. This was what it
meant, these weeks of waiting and of
pain. She had wondered much at
the numbuess in her limbs, at the
visit of the three strange physicians
a few days ago, at the evasive an
swers to all her questions; but never,
in the most discouraged hour, had
this thought even been suggested to
her.
“Oh, how can I bear it t Why must
it be f”
She did uot see the* gate open and
some oue come up the path to the
door. She did not hear her own door
open, nor was she conscious of any
presence, uutil she felt a cool baud on
her hot brow and heard a sweet voice
say, “My darling Lillie 1” Then turn
ing quickly she saw dear Cousin Ma
bel, who bad always been Uercoufl
<lanto and adviser in all school-girl
jo,vs and sorrows. Very sweet-and
pleasant did she look in her while
dress and blue ribbons, with a cluster
of pansies in her hair, as she seated
herself beside the bed. She took
Lillie’s hot hand in one of hers, and,
gently stroking her hair with the oth
er, looked lovingly into the sad, tear
stained face.
‘•0 Mabel, do you know f” was Lil
lie’s first question.
“Yes, dailiug, I know all about it,
and 1 can never tell you how I have
sorrowed for yon.”
“Oh, but Mabel, how can I bear it ?
Why must it be I It would be so
much easier to die. Why could not
luy head have struck the stone so that
I might have been killed at once ? 1
had so many plans and hopes. Fath
er aud mother have no one hut me,
and I wanted to be such a help and
comfort to them now that I am
through school. Hut I can never be
anything but a burden. O dear! O
dear 1”
Quietly aud lovingly the cool, soft
hand passed back and forth over the
fevered brow until Lillie’s eagerness
had spent itself. Then in gentle
tones Mabel said,
“Lillie, darling, let me tell you some
of the thoughts that have come to me
about you to-day. For 1 have been
thinking of you all day as I have been
too busy to come to you, for I knew
what Dr. Graham was going to tell
you this morning. Doyou remember
that Sabbath evening last fall, the
day when you united with the church,
when you were telling uie how bright
aud beautiful everything seemed to
you ? You said that you were so
happy in Jesus’ love, but you were
afraid lest other things should come
in and take your thoughts away from
him; you had so many tiiiugs to
thiuk of, your studies, your music,
your school friends, aud your plans
for home work. You said that you
aluiost wished that you had uothiug
to do but to thiuk of Jesus. Aud
now, dear, that our Father has ta
ken away some of these temptations,
aud shut you up more to himself,
cannot you trust that.lt all means
I (lid uot tell you then, how he
taught me through a very different
experience. When I lirst thought
that 1 had begun to love the Saviour,
I was a lazy, idle girl, with nothing
to do to enjoy myself from morning
till night. Such a life was not satis
fying, nor was it of a kiud to develop
a stroug Christiau character. 1 had
many doubts and fears and I used to
wish for something to take my
thoughts away from myself. And
the “something” came, in a way that
I never could have ehoseu. Father
died so suddenly, you know, and
mother was sick for so many years,
and with her to nurso and all the
younger childreu to care for, I have
never known to this day what it is to
be frfie from caie. I have had to
work hard and plan closely sometimes
to make both ends meet, but I have
learued that all of each day’s care and
weariness has come from God, aud 1
think that 1 can trust him always.
“Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace,
whose mind is stayed on thee; be
cause he trusteth in thee.” The
peace came to me in the midst of con
stant work which God had appoint
ed, aud T think that he wants to
teach you the same lesson in the
“lying still which he has chosen for
you.
“1 only long that ray eyes may be
Steadily fixed-ou him, that he
May guide me at his will,
Thai my hands may be faithful in work begun,
And my willing feet ou his errands run,
Or, when he bids, stand still."
Aud I thiuk, darling, that you
will tiud work to do in your chair,
that we who have to run ou the Mas
ter’s errands, could not do half so
welt.”
So quietly aud soothingly did the
kind friend talk until Lillie’s mothor
Wits through with the business that
had called her away, aud Mabel was
obliged to return to her own home
duties,
Three years have passed since that
day, aud still our Lillie sits or lies
from day to day, often weary and suf
fering, but at peace. Do not think
my little story incomplete because I
can tell of no wonderful physician
who hits wrought a miraculous cure
in that sick room. Only the Great
Physician is at work there and his
work has been to purify and comfort
the soui. These years have not been
speut in idleness. Work did come to
Lillie. Many of those village homes
are beautified with specimens of her
handiwork. Many a comfort which
her parents would have had to deny
themselves has found its way into
their home through Lillie’s means;
for she is earning something by teach
ing a claw of little boys and girls who
gather in her rooni every clay. The
sick room too is the favorite resort of
her young friends who come with all
their secrets and plans to this one
who has had to give up all active life
for herself. Her sympathy is always
ready and one of these friends upon
whose life many burdens have been
laid, says that after a hard day’s work
it rests her just to look at Lillie.
It is not always easy. There come
days and even weeks when the little
scholars must be sent away, the cro
chet. work and embroidery laid aside,
even the precious Bible closed, and
Lillie must lie in a darkened room,
with eyes bandaged, in an agony of j
pain, with only enough of conscious- j
ness to long for release. Those who !
love her best can only wish for her
sake, that she might be taken home,
sadly as she would be missed by all
j who knew her. But they have
learned with Lillie the sweetness
of leaving all with One who knows
what is best, and eo they are kept in
peace :
“That peace which suffers and is strong,
Trusts where it cannot see,
Nor deems the trial way too long,
Hut leaves the end with Thee.'1
SMOOTH NAMES.
It may not have occurred to every
body to notice how much our notions
of sin are warped and sway ed by the
J soft words we apply to it. Lan
guage is more than pust a mere
medium of intercourse inrfliis world.
It is also the great instrument of ed
ucation. It is to intellect what coin
is to trade ; it is hoarded as well as
thrown into circulation. Now, as
long ago as Isaiah’s time, the power
of words—the absolute force inherent
; in the mere names of things—was
I felt. That prophet was divinely com
missioned to resist the fatal impos
tiire. -“Woe unto them,” said he;
j “woe unto them that call evil good
: and good evil; that put darkness for
light and light for darkness; that
I put bitter lor sweet and sweet for
bitter.”
fil Not that the calling of things by
j exactly opposite names changes their
character. God is not deceived by
mere perversions of the dictionary.
But this base interchange of terms is
I sure to produce a laxity of moral sen
■ timeut. Such a process of softening
I adjectives and milding epithets viti
| ates the mind of any man ; it dulls
the delicate edge of his discrimination
and hardens his heart.
Begin with denominating a mail’s
oaths his slips of the tongue; call his
filthy sougs and stories his indelica
cies ; call his vices his peccadilloes;
call his bad habits his failiugs ; call
his dissipations his wild oats; call
his adulteries his freaks of galautry ;
call his gambling debts debts of hon
or ; call bis debauches high living; :
when he throws dice say—he plays ;
when he thieves from trust funds in
order to bid ou stocks, say—he specu
latca.
Keep this up a while, anil then say
how long will it be before his con
science will be seared as to all legiti
mate and unalterable distinctions
between eternal rigid and eternal
wrong? It is mockery thus to
trifle. Names are things. No less
an authority than Lord Bacon has
said : “Men believe that their reason
is lord over their words; but it hap
pens, too, that words exeicise a re
ciprocal and reactionary power over
our intellect. Words, as a Tartar’s
bow, shoot back upon the understan
ding of the wisest, and mightily en
tangle and pervert the judgment that
is not on its guard.”
Is it uot high time for us all to be
come thoughtful ? Where are we, as
a community, going? The revela
tions of crime which are made co us
every morning are more and more
multiplied, more and more shocking.
We cau hardly believe that attend to
it will ever be reached. Some will
laugh and trifle as long as the world
stands. “Though thou shouldest bray
a fool in a mortar, among wheat with
a pestle, yet will not his foolishness
depart from him.”
But to uieu yet gifted with some
remains of sense—to women yet lov
ing their homes and remembering
God—is there not a call to serious
ness? The summons to Waterloo
met many of Napoleon’s officers in the
midst of au assembly. They were
dancing giddily ; but the sound of
cannon brought them to their arms.
Is there not row and riot enough
around us now.—Ch. Weekly.
When the mind, like a pure, calm
lake, reflects back the light which
is shed from heaven, the image of
God is upon it ^mmensurate with
its capacity, tbr™ie tiniest drop of
dew images forth the true though
uot the full radiance of the sun.
Subscribe for the Sun,
WHAT TOTTY TAUGHT THE DEACON.
Carefully Totty stepped along the
[street. It was the first time in all
her life that she had been to the min
j ister’s, and Totty felt grown up in
ideed.
But to tell you what she had in her
basket, anil why she is going to her
| minister’s I must go back a week or
[ two. Three weeks before, Mrs. Dal
[ las (Totty’s mothers) was very ill, so
j ill that the doctor said she might not
| get well, and Mr. Duncan the miuis
! ter, came to see her. Now Mr. Duu
| can had children of his own, and
{ knew how lonely the poor little girl
! whom he saw standing at the sitting
[room window, as lie rang the door
| bell, must feel when her mother lay
I ill up stairs and no one had time to
! notice the child. So, as he came
I down stairs, lie said to the nurse who
' was to open the door for him, “I
; would like to see the children.”
“Oh.” said the woman, “there is
I only one; I think she’s there,” and
j she opened the sitting-room door.
It was growing dusk, but Mr. Dun
can saw a little figure in one corner,
and saying, “You neeun’t wait,” be
closed the door and went to the child.
Poor Totty ! she was standing in the
corner with her face to the wall.
“Come and sit on my knee, my child,”
said a kind voice, and Totty saw the
great tall minister bending over her.
She was a shy child, yet she was glad
to get on any one’s knee—she was so
lonely.
“Why did you stand in the corner,
Totty?” said the minister, after he
had learned her name.
“ ‘Cause I’d been bad, and mother
would”—and the sad little voice broke
down.
Mr. Duncan understood at once.
Jfhe child had tried to do good, and,
failing, had punished herself as her
dear mother would have done, loug
ing for even the mother’s punishment
in her loneliness.
Mr. Duncan talked to the little girl
about God’s love for her mother and
for her, talked of heaven, till Totty
felt ashamed to wish to keep her
mother from such a lovely place, and
then he put her dowii, and kissing
her good-bye wenf away, saying “You
must come and see me, Totty, by and
by.”
Strange to say Mrs. Dallas grew
better, and the little girl was sent
away to Aunt Mary’s to stay till
mamma was well. Just two days,
Totty had come home, to find her
dear mam 11a up, and to tell 'her all
about that “good, kind Mr. Duncan.”
“I want to show bim that I love
him, mamma. I want to take him
something nice.”
Mrs. Dallas felt so' thankful for
her recovery that she too wanted to
show her gratitude, so she said:
“Well, Totty, I will let.you go to
see Mr. Duncan on Thurday, and-you
may take him something nice.” -r
“May I take him something of my
own
It was winter time, and eggs were
very scarce. Totty hail a dozen hens,
and papa bought all her eggs, which
gave Totty quite a nice little sum of
pocket money. She ran to the cook.
“Oh, Nancy, has my hens laid eggs
while I was away f”
“Yes, Miss Totty, your pa's took
six and there’s twelve left.”
Totty danced for joy. Mr. Duncan
should have all her eggs. Mrs. Dal
las was glad to humor the little girl
and with her husband’s help she
made one of Totty’s eggs a really val
uable present. For, after blowing
the egg empty, she carefully worked
in a fifty dollarfl'itl, and laid a note
in the bottom of the basket to say it
was a thank offering for her recovery.
By Thursday Totty had twenty
eggs, and started off in her Sunday
dress to call at the minister’s. Now,
just as she tripped around the corner,
and came in sight of the church and
the minister’s house, Deacon Sharp
caiue up to her. The deacon was a
good man and helped the minister in
his church work, but he never had
thought of giving him an extra pre
sent. “We pjy his salary, and though
it ain’t much it’s reg’lar,” as it was
small it was pretty well up to the
minute.
“Well, little one,” said the deacon,
“you look as fresh as a posy. “How’s'
your ma !”
“She’s most well, thank you.”
“Where are you going to and what
have you got there I”
“I’m going to the minister’s, and
these are eggs—my eggs. I want to
give ’em to him.”
“Why, what are you giviu’ him
eggs for
“Oh, he told me about heaven,
you know, and was so kind and—
L love him so much. Don’t you
always give things to the folks you
lovo I”
I Tlte deacon went ou autl left Totty
at the minister’s door where she was
warmly welcomed and petted, and
Mr. Duucau told her he should
{Taint one of the eggs, and always
| keep it to remember her love for
him. You may be sure that pleased
I Totty.
i The next day, just as the minister
, was thanking God again for that
money, which was sent in such a
wonderful way, Deacon Sharpe’s mar
ket wagon drew up. ‘‘Mary, dear,’*
calls the minister, “see here, darling,
j you felt badly that that fifty dollars
must all go to pay back bills and for
groceries. I told you not to fret—
look at the deacon.”
It was a funny sight, but Very
pleasant to a poorly paid man, with
three big boys to feed. Why the
deacon didn’t ring the bell, I can’t
tell. He pulled out a barrel of pota
toes, then another ; then came apples, i
and, as he landed these, one or two j
rolling off the deacon picked one up, ■
took a bite, nodded his head eagerly, |
as much as to say, “Them’s good,”
and looked with great approbation
at the barrels. But there was more j
to come ; turnips? carrots, and a cou
ple of bags of some kind of grain.
“Corn meal, dear, I do believe,” said
the delighted wife, “and with the eggs
I’ll give you such a johnny-cake to-1
night 1”
At last, carrying a couple of tur 1
keys in hand, Deacon Sharpe rang
the bell. Mr. Duncan himself opened
the door. The deacon was a man of
few words.
“Mornin’, sir. Can your boys give
me a baud to roll in these things f”
"I’ll help you, with a right good
will, deacon. Who told you what we
needed!”
Deacon Sharpe had reached the po
tatoes, and leaning hard on them he
exclaimed, “You don’t meau to say
you needed them!”
“Certainly. Y'ou see we haven’t a
big farm like you. Didn’t you bring
them because we needed them ?”
“Mr. Duncan, I brought you them
things because I was ashamed that a
little bit of a girl should be more
thankful to you than I’d ever been.
You’ve driven out to our place time
and ag’iu when Sairy Ann was sick,
and had prayer meetings at our
house, and taught me a lot o’ good—
made me a better mau I hope ; aud
yet I never did the least extra thiug
to show my thanks to you—as that
little mite said—that I loved you.
This taught me a lessen, and these
things sha’n’t be the last to come
from Briarsly farm for yon. As to
your needing them, I own it’s a
new idea, and I feel pretty cheap
when I think on it.—Th&Canada Cas
ket. j
• PLAYER EXPENSIVE.
BIS1I0P J. WEAVER, B. D.
The Scriptures abundantly teach
! that we must pray—pray always :
; pray without ceasing. Whatever we
j need for time and eternity will be ■
grauted to us in answer to fervent
prayer. “If ye abide iu me and my
words iu you, ye shall ask what ye
will and it shall be done unto you.” j
Few persons, however, have ever
thought that it was sometimes expen-1
sive to pray. It is not expensive to
repeat words and call it prayer; but
to pray acceptably is often very.,cost
ly. Many a prayer has gone unan
swered because the person praying
was not willing to pay the price.
There came a young man to Christ.:
and said, “Good Master, what good
thing shall 1 do that I may have eter
nal life ?” Jesus said, “Keep the
commandments.” “All these,” said
the young man, “have I observed
from my youth up. What lack I yet.”
Our Lord loved that young man be
; cause he was sincere. At the same
| time he knew what the trouble was
j and said, “If thou wouldst be perfect,
sell what thou hast.” Kow, it is not
! a si%^>er sc to possess even largely
upon this world’s goods." But iu the
I case of this-young man nothing would
[ do for him but to dispose ofhis world-:
j ly goods, because heart was set upon '
them, and the Lord knew it. He
could have been made perfect that
| day if he had been willing to pay the
price. But ho went away sorrowful.!
It would have cost too much.
In a little town far out in the West
there lived a family, the husband at
one time hud been a minister, but;
for some cause had been turned
away from Christ and became exceed
ingly wicked. His wife continued
faithful, praying night and day for
the return of her erring husband.
He became so desperately wicked1
j that he sought every means to dis
| turb his wife during her devotions,
j But she was not to be turned away
j from her purpose, and like Uauiel,
! who knew that the writing was seal
ed, weut to her chamber and prayed
as aforetime. She dually became so
in earnest that she brought her all
and laid it at the Master’s feet., en
tering into a solemn covenant that
she would give all she had, even life,
if need be, if he would answer her
prayer. Aot many days after, their
little son, a very interesting little
boy, while rtding along the street in
front of their house, was thrown vio
lently to the ground. They brought
him in ; but be was a corpse. They
sat down by the side of their dead
boy with sorrowing hearts. As they
sat there weeping she laid her hand
j on her husband’s shoulder and said,
i “My dear husband, will you come
i back to Jesus !” lie looked first at
| the pale face of his boy, and then at
the sorrow stricken wife, and after a
moment’s silence said, “The Lord be
ing my helper, I will return to the
path I have forsaken.” With a
throbbing heart the wiie said, “My
prayer is answered, but it cost me
; the life of my boy.”
God will answer prayer. But he
must have his own time. He works
. by means. And when we put all in
to his bauds for him to use as in his
, wisdom he may think best, he will
grant us all we need.
How many have asked to be made
perfect and wondered why their
prayers were not answered. There
was something in the way—some
thing they would not part with.
They would not pay the price. There
is but one way to insure an ahswer to
our prayer, and that is by putting all
on the altar and letting God use
whatever in his wisdom he may
think best. He will not take from
ns anything only what he sees we
would be better without. No matter
what he takes, he will see that it is
mere than made up in some other
way. What if it should cost us all
we have to be made perfect. Would
that not be better than to have all
the world and die out of Christ ?
Christian, would yon be willing to
give up fashion, pleasure-seeking,
worldly goods,honor, friends, and even
life itselfto be made perfect! God may
not require all these, but we must be
willing to give up all for Christ. Paul
counted alt things loss for tile exeel
eucy of the knowledge of Christ.
We cautiot be made perfect until we
give ourselves wholly to Christ. All
for Christ. A wicked man after
having turned to Christ, was ask
ed by a friend ii be had counted the
cost. “Cost,” said he, “I am going
through, cost what it may.” That is
the language of a consecrated man.
To him eternal life is worth every
thing. Home, friends, the world—all
go if need be. A skeptic asked
a simple hearted Christian lady
[ what she would take lor her
| soul. She modestly replied, “I will
i take heaven for it; nothing more,
: nothing less.’’
We are are not fit to have our own
; way. God J;uows what is best for
us, and be must and will have his
i way. He sees what is in the way of
i answering our prayers. It therefore
we put everything in his hands he will
take care of it, and us too. Our first
prayer should be for grace to conse
crate our all to Christ. This done,
then “ask what ye will and it shall
be done unto you.” But mind this,
a soitBwholly given to Christ never
wills to ask anything not in harmouy
: with the will of Christ.
THE GOOD SHEPHERD.
A missionary tells a beautiful story.
He had been reading the tenth chap
I ter of John, and after he had finjshed
1 he went out to walk on one ot the
1 mountains near by. There he heard
a shepherd calling his sheep by name,
lie went up and talked with the man.
The poor man was not a Bible reader,
but if you could only have heard what
i ho said to the missionary, you would
; have thought he knew the tenth chap
! ter of John all by heart,
i “Do you name your sheep V asked
the missionary.
,L “Yes; and they all kuow their
| names.”
“IVhat do you call the one just over
1 there by itself V
The man told him, and the mission
ary called him. He did not come.—
lie only looked up from the grass he
| was eating, and then went on as if no
one had spoken.
Then the man called him. At once
he came.
“He know my voice,” said the man.
; “He would not come to a stranger.
iNbue of them would follow a stfau
! ger.”
“Do they ever go into dangerous
places f”
“Often. Sometimes I follow them
j and tind them on the edge of a preci
pice.”
“Are yon not in danger 1”
I “Yes; but I should get my sheep
j or die iu the attempt.”
I “You would lay down your life t'oi
j it,” said the missionary; and then he
told the man of our great good Shep
herd who had laid down His life foi
[Hia sheep.”
CHRIST. 01 THE WO LO ?
Not long since a young lady was
urged by a minister to choose bfetween
Christ and the world because she
could not have both. She said she
was determined to have both*?-. she
; loved the gaieties of the woid, and
was resolved to have them, and yet
she wished to be saved ; and, there*
j fore, she would have Christ too. She
was told that it was impossible; she
| must choose one to have the chief
place in her heat t.
Then she said “I choose I lie world.”
j “If that be your choice,” said the
j minister, .‘take all the pleasure out of
I it you cau ; for you will have no oilier
[ enjoyment to all eternity.” She did
| so ; plunged into all sorts of gaiety,
and tried to find happiness in the
V
j passing ffour.
One evening, in a large company,
she was singinjg a beautiful song. It
was about the parable of the foolish
virgins, how they came to the door
when it was shut, and could not get
| in. She was singing the last lines of
| the song—
j ‘‘Have we not heard the Bridegroom 13 so sweet?
.0 let us iu, though ia.e to kisa His feet!
j NTo, uo ; too late ! ye cannot enter now" —
| when the thought burst into her
! mind. “That is just my case—it will
j be true of me !” She rushed out of
the room, and spent the night in tears
and prayer. Five days and nights
she was in great distress, till at last
that text came to her mind, “Him
that cometh unto me I will in no wise
cast out.” It brought her peace and
joy iu believing. She weut back to
the minister who had heard some
thing of what was going on, aud who
j asked her what was now her choice.
Her answer was—
‘*-My heart is fixed, eternal God,
Fixed on Thee;
And my immortal choice is made,
Christ for me!"
Be thankful to God, dear friepds,
that the only one door to real hap
j piness is open, and cpeu to you.
| But, oh, take care, lest you come
! TOO LATE,
WHAT RELIGIONja^ FOR A MAN.
A man without religion is like a
man living iu a planet mTIlf^Si-Cd
| by the sun. He has trees, fruit,
J grass, aud flowers, streams and hills
I around them, but they are only uu- x
: dulations of darkness ; he has inoun
| tains, but they are gauut gloomy
crags; he has streams, but they are
chilled with the touch of darkness aud
death; he has fruits, but they have
no sweetness for ripening sun ; be
I has flowers, cold, colorless, and dying
hie has trials, but they are painful as
j cents to be climbed with uneasy and
| uuhopful patience; he has Work, but
it is cheeiless, empty, and really aim
! less, for the chill stream of death cuts
off all; he has prosperity, but it is
hollow and unpalatable; be has
friendships, but they are only for
threescore years aud ten. But relig
ion lets a light upon all these. The
sun has risen upon the mountains,
and crown of glory is on their crests;
the light fall's on their rivers, aud
they spaikle back radiance,and mur
mur along their banks with joy ; the
fruits turn blushing cheeks towards
the sun, and every flower robed up
iu beauty; the suu rises upon the
life. Every trial is lightened with
the light of God’s love; every labor
sparkles under the beam of his com
mand aud liis provideucc; all success
is sweet because it is gift; all friend
ship iu Him is doubly dear because
clad iu the vesture of immortality.
Yes, who will not say, indeed, that
lie who chooses religion has chosen
the thing most needed, aud the best,
because he lias chosen that which
gives strength, beauty, aud true glo
ry to all the rest ? is not laboryligni
fled by the thought—To this- God
I calls me ? is not sorrow sanctified by
| it, for it says, “In this God is with
[ me f” is not success elevated by it,
for we say,1.“He has prospered our
; handiwork 1” is not friendship inten
sified by it, for we say!1 “Them that
sleep in Jesus will God bring with
Him ?”—Quiver.
I feel like a child casting a stone
into some deep ravine iu the moun
tain side, and listening to hear it fall
—but listening all in vain ; or like the
' sailor casting the lead at sea, but it is
too deep—the lougest line cannot
I fathom it. The ocean of Christ’s suf
| ferings is unfathomable.
Love finds love. The deaf and
| dumb child yet sees love in the rnoth
I er’s eye ; when she becomes a mother
' she knows what the look of that eye
1 meant. We-are to find Him through
love. Paul somewhat* found this m
, Him, and so the Epistles are an
. j apocalypse.
r: -
| Live for Uod ami gain eternal life,