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in my mind emerge from the canvas.
I would see a face, all soul without a
trace of human sin, a face wherein
was reflected the heart of a child with
the keenest and superior intelligence
of a noble woman. And beneath it I
would write:
“Keep thee, then, thy child-like heart
That shall His kingdom be.”
All poetic natures love the ocean.
There is something fascinating in that
restless, foam-capped mass of water
we call the sea. The very soul is held
enthralled by a sight of the far
stretching, shimmering blue, a sound
of the pounding surf and a smell of
the brimy salt, tl holds an unsolved
mystery in its bosom and from it
comes strange thoughts of death and
eternity. There is a charm about the
sea to which almost every man and
woman is susceptible. It is the great
Sphinx of the Ages. Into his books
Joseph Lincoln has put all the fascina
tion of this wonderful part of nature.
True, he has written no sea-stories
like those of Russell or Marryat, no
tales of fierce pirates or wrecked ves
sels. He has written the simple lives
of the longshoremen, with, perhaps, an
Old salt as the principal character, but
he has given to the sea by which they
dwell the picturesqueness of the real
ity. Os the three “Partners of the
Tide,” “Cap’n Eri” and “Mr. Pratt” it
is hard to say which is the better.
There are in tills day when everybody
writes writers and writers. It is only
the writer that can delineate charac
ter, embody his creations with life, as
it were. As only the genuine artist
can paint a great picture, as only the
real sculptor can carve from a block
of marble the semblance of life mak
ing his subject so real that the eye is
deceived, so the fitness or unfitness of
a writer lies in his ability to delin
eate character, to give to it the foibles
and fancies of the living. There are
many people gifted with brilliant imag
inations who can conjure up daring
plots and tilirilling situations, yet they
would make dummies of their heroes
and heroines were they to essay fic
tion writing. There are, of course,
people who do not care for character
delineation in their fiction. Such peo
ple read only to lose themselves in
the world of the imagination —to get
away from their own lives. But the
real discriminate reader reads not be
cause of these things, but that he may
gain some crumb of knowledge from
the characters showing clear against
the back-ground of the plot. No book
can ever be great unless it appeals
The Ministry of a Life-Work.
(Continued from Page 3.)
come to claim you offer, but had I known that I was
so soon to receive such an unusual fee I might not
have accepted it so readily.” “No backing down
now,” said the lawyer, drawing out a ten-dollar note
and handing it to the preacher, “out with my half
of that fee.” The clergyman opened the box and
tumbled the pup out on the desk and asked: “Which
half will you take?”
But enough on the ministry as a vocation, now a
word on the spiritual and divine side of the sacred
occupation.
11. The Call to the Ministry.
We can not, we dare not, put the ministerial
office by the side of other vocations for the pur
pose of comparing the merits in order that we may
deliberately choose it if its advantages appeal to
us. Another element must enter into the consider
ation of this work, and that element is the motive.
It is a higher order of service than that of any
mere profession, for the ministerial office is God
appointed, and high heaven calls the men who are
to serve in it. This fact can not be overlooked.
But what are the indications of a divine call to
this work? This is a question of great interest and
importance; let us deal with it in a practical way.
I have served on $ good many Presbyteries; called
to the human in its readers, and to do
this some character within its lids
must be depicted so vividly as to as
sume all the attributes of life. Wit
ness, “Becky Sharp,” “David Copper
field,” “Les Miserables,” and, the
more recent, “David Harum.”,
Joseph Lincoln has not failed in his
portrayal of human nature, nor has he
forgotten how essential is local color.
All who enjoy originality in a writer,
purity and high ideals, should read
the three above-mentioned books.
*
A LITTLE THING THAT HELPED.
Sometimes such a little thing can
help us. I was once called upon to
bear a very heavy burden, and I was
not bearing it very bravely. To my
home came a plain and simple man
who was selling little Bibles. After
a short visit of a few days he went
away. When he said good-bye he
asked me to accept one of the little
books and to please him, I took the
gift. I did not know that this very
cheap little Bible was to bring me
a message that I had not found in
any of the others that I had loved
and studied. But it did.
When I opened the little book I
found a surprise. It was the first Red
Letter Testament that I had seen. I
had been very ill, and the shadow of a
great sorrow was heavy upon me. In
that dark place my Master’s message
to me shone out with a new distinct
ness. It was such a little difference,
just the color of the ink. But it meant
a great deal. I could find so easily
just what He had said —it all seemed
so clear and plain and so beautiful and
full of meaning. I had meant to help
the man who sold cheap Bibles, but
it was he who had helped me.
The Word’s of our Master! Have
you taken them apart from all the
rest and let them have their war with
you? Our Father’s message to His lit
tle earth-children. To us —to you —
to me.
He has always been sending mes
sages to us, but we were never able
to understand angels and prophets
very well. And so the Message, the
Word, was made flesh and dwelt
among us. That is just like a great
God!
It seems to me that the loveliest
truth in the Message is the FATHER
HOOD of God. My own dear Father!
Did you ever have a tender father
when you were a little child? Well, I
missed that. My father died just when
I began to love him. I think I al-
to ordain applicants for the ministry, and have
heard many different experiences with reference to
the call to this work. Some had seen visions; some
had supernatural impressions; some were hemmed
upon some peninsular of God’s providence and
driven to preach, and some felt that God wanted
them to preach because they had failed at every
thing else they had undertaken. But more will
ingly than upon any of these have I laid my hand
upon the head of the man who gave as his reason
for believing that he was called to preach the ex
perience of a great desire. The man who says, “I
feel that I am called to preach because I want to
preach. I am possessed of a passion for the souls
of men. I hear the cry of ignorance and the wail
of despair that eomes from the benighted millions,
and my heart goes out in an overwhelming desire to
help them. The burden of man's sin and woe op
presses my soul and I must devote my life to the
enlightening and saving of my fellowmen,” has, in
my opinion, received heaven’s call to this holy
work.
The Lord whom we serve said, “Lift up your eyes
and behold the fields that are white unto the har
vest,” and the vision of the whitened harvest —the
sense of the world’s great need, and a real desire to
serve that need —constitutes the best call to this
sacred office. Certain it is that the preacher’s
message will be dull and flat, and he will go about
his ministerial duties in a perfunctory manner if he
The Golden Age for May 6, 1909.
ways missed him. So I was glad to
know, to really and absolutely know,
that God is my Father. It is a truth
that you may know in a positive way.
You don’t kaow it just because some
one has told you. That is the way
we know history. But this Is different
When you lead a poor, cold, blind man
into a warm, sweet room, do you need
to tell him that the fire is clear and
bright? He feels the warmth and com
fort of it. He just simply knows.
*****
Os one thing be sure: God means
well by you, no matter where this lit
tle message of love finds you. Don’t
be troubled about the farness nor the
darkness nor the unfitness nor the
powerlessness. Just annex the small
province of your will to the great Will
of God, and —there you are, a subject
of the King, a citizen of the King
dom of heavens! What more can
you ask, and yet this is not all. You
are a child in your Father’s House, a
dweller in the palace of Peace.
ELLEN FRISELL WYCKOFF.
Statesville, N. C.
It
MERCY.
The quality of mercy is not strained;
It droppeth as the gentle rain from
heaven
Upon the place beneath: it is twice
blessed;
It blesseth him that gives, and him
that takes:
’Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it be
comes
The throned monarch better than his
crown;
His scepter shows the force of tem
poral power;
The attribute to awe and majesty,
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear
of kings,
But mercy is above this sceptered
sway—
It is enthroned in the hearts of kings,
It is an attribute to God himself;
And earthly power doth then show
likest
When mercy seasons justice. There
fore, Jew,
Though justice be thy plea, consider
this —
That in the course of justice, none
of us
Should see salvation: we do pray for
mercy,
And that same prayer should teach
us all to do
The deeds of mercy.
—William Shakespeare.
SHALL I TELL MOTHER?
I heard a mother say to her boy
once: “You used to tell me every
thing—all the things you had done, all
you wished to do. If you received a
letter from a friend, you were glad to
let me read it; it lay where we all
might see what was in it; so many
times my heart has been made glad
because you trusted me so. But now
it is so different, you do not want me
to know!”
There was something quite like a
wail of trouble in the words. I am
sure the heart out of which they came
was full of sorrow and sea
for the lack of the old-time trust, fear
for the future of the boy who no
longer trusted his mother.
Another, and this time it was a
father that was speaking, said this:
“From the first I have done all in
my power to keep the confidence of
my boys. I have told them they might
do anything or have anything I do
or have, if only they would come and
tell me ail about it; but that the mo
ment they ever deceived me, our close
relationship would come to an end.”
And the confidence between this
father and his boys was good to be
hold. Tell father and mother about
it, boys. You never will be sorry if
you do; and surely there will come a
day some time when your heart will
smite you sorely if you keep back
things that you should have laid bare
before them.
Why tell your parents? Because
they love you, and long to be loved
and trusted in return; because they
have in the years they have lived
learned many things which are as yet
unknown to you; because if you tell
them all about the things which are
in your hearts they may know how
to advise you, so that you may avoid
trouble, which might otherwise sweep
you off your feet forever; because you
can not be true to father and mother
and not tell them everything.
Do not let anything get into your
life to break the harmony between
you and father and mother. Such a
little thing may do it —one wrong word
whispered into your ear; one wicked
thought; one base desire. Go quickly
and tell those who are dearest to you
of all on earth about it, and let them
help you to get back once more into
the right way.
“Shall I tell mother?”
Yes, it is the only right way. Trust
her, and she never will prove untrue
to you. —Young People’s Weekly.
lacks this passion for souls, and love of the minis
terial work. That overflowing love that makes sacri
fice and service a joy is the only proper prompting
and effective motive behind this life-work:
“Thy soul must overflow, if thou
Another’s soul would reach;
It needs the overflow of heart
To give the lips full speech.”
Prompted by this holy motive one will not tarry
long to consider the temporal advantages or disad
vantages of this service, but will look and wait for
better rewards than any worldly emoluments. The
very joy of such a service is itself a reward —a re
ward for which many noble souls have counted it a
privilege to die. David Brainerd could say: “Here
am I, Lord, send me. Send me to the rough and
savage pagans of the wilderness; send me from all
that is called comfort on earth; send me even to
death itself if it be only in thy service and to pro
mote thy kingdom.”
“Hark! the voice of Jesus crying,
Who will go and work today?
Fields are white and harvest waiting,
Who will bear the sheaves away?
Loud and long the Master calleth;
Rich reward he offers thee,
Who will answer gladly saying, >
Here am I, send me, .'
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