Newspaper Page Text
THREE DOLLARS PEIt ANNUM.
VOL. XXXIY. NO. 10.
A Brief Biography.
Mr. Editor: As I perceive the epidemic is
abroad for sketching the lives aud characters
of church “celebrities," I have got the trem
bles lest some impertinent fellow should try
his hand on me. In order, then ‘—• tut
so dire a calamity, T must „ , ace
in your paper for this short “shich," as I
think I ought to know more alx>ut myself
t'An- any of these scribblers knows about me.
To begin at the beginning. But this is a
great difficulty, for though I am sure I was
there, I have no recollection about my own
birth. However, I am satisfied I was born
sometime; and I think it must have been in
old Bonaparte’s time, for I recollect seeing
him or a picture of him sealed up in a bottle
wlieu I was a boy. I’ve heard them say that
I was a mighty cross baby, and they had to
give me lots of paregoric to keep me quiet.
I think it very likely this is a true story, for
I’ve been cross enough ever since. Just in
the way of a warning to parents on that
point, let me say that 1 think it a bad
practice to give children medicine. They are
\ cry apt to gel to like it ij'iit keep takii
alter they’ve grown up. At least it s«.ems
like been so with me, for some of my
friends tell me that I make my insides an
apothecary shop.
I was sent to school soon after old Bona
parte was sent to St. Helena; but there was
this difference between us, his keeper was
a man mine was a woman. I don’t
remember much about those times, except
one green spot, and that was my going to a
tea party, one afternoou at the house of one
of the school girls. Well, that was the be
ginning of my educatiou, aud I liavo been
at it ever since; and I have to relate it as a
fact, however discouraging it may be to the
young folks, the longer I live and the more
I study, the more I lind I don’t know.
As the subject of this sketch is still living,
and hopes to live a while longer, it might be
indelicate to say much about him, for yon
know that would look like flattery ; and tl*e
Bible says some strong things about that
class of gentry called flatterers. But as I
fear my readers might be disappointed if 1
did not give them some idea of my personal
appearance, I’ll try to do it iu as few words
as possible. Iu physical conformation lam
very like some other people, for 1 have but
one head and two feet, one nose and two
eyes, one mouth and two ears (these last
nut long ones.) My habits aro peculiar;
I eat when I am hungry, (if I can get any
thing tit to eat) and drink when I am thisty,
and sleep when I] am sleepy. I put on my
shirt by drawing it over my head, and my
trousers by putting my feet through the
legs; and iu spite of the fashion, and not
withstanding the great improvements in
tailoring, I stick to the old trick of wearing
suspenders.
And now to make an honest confession,
which I do with the most perfect sincerity,
I have to acknowledge that I have left un
done much that I should have done, and
done much that I ought not to have done.
Perhaps iu this last category may be placed
this egotistical notice of Myself.
The lU'tat Aitlibisliop's First Ser-
- -"i?-''.
1a... bikixt reniuvneu Archbishop Feuelon
is said to have been exceedingly diffident in
bis youth. This extreme timidity was a
source of great suffering to himself, and of
annoyance to his uncle, the Marquis <V
Feuelon, under whose auspices the lad was
being educated at St. Sulspice.
“My child,” said the Marquis, one day,
to his nephew, “I have just been talking
with'Monsieur Truson, the Prior of Saint
Sulspice, and he gives me an excellent ac
count of 3’ou; by your good conduct you
have won the love of your comrades; by
your scholarship, the respect of your teach
ers; but yon have one failing which causes
me great sorrow, which will paralyze all
your powers, aud stand in the way of your
usefulness and advancement in the world.
It is your unaccountable bash fulness. Forced
by your vocatiou to speak iu public, this
timidity will be the ruin of your career; it
must be overcome, and the sooner you set
about overcoming it the better. Even
while I your best friend, have been speak
ing with you, you have changed color three
times, just like a bashful girl! Now, Fran
cis, I tell you this will never do, and, as des
perate diseases require desperate remedies,
Monsieur Trouson and I have devised a
cure. You are to commence your public
career at once, and as the Duchess de Beau
villiers has been giving a series of religions
entertainments at her salon, which she
wishes to close this evening with a sermou,
I have promised that you should be the
preacher.”
“I!” exclaimed the young student, aghast.”
“Yes, you, my nephew. You have already
composed sermons, and it must be far less
difficult to deliver a sermon than to write
one.”
“Not for me, I assure you,” said Francis.
“I canuot speak before all these people; it
is utterly imposible.”
“But Bossnet, at your age, improvised
discourses iu the salon of the Duchess de
Komboulet.”
“I am not Bossuet.”
“No, you are Francis Feuelon, and you
come from a far nobler and higher race,
distinguished alike by letters and by valor.
Once for all, nephew', I tell you that you
will preach this evening. It is now nine in
the morning ; you have eleven hours for
pieparatiou.- 1 will give you a subject ; you
may discourse upon ‘The Nothingness of
Grandeur.’ ”
“In a salon where only the favorites of
fortune assembled ?”
“So much the better ; but if that subject
does not suit you, preach upon ‘Love to our
Neighbor.’ Do your best, not forgetting
that you are Francis Feuelon de Salignac,
and must prove yourself worthy of the name.
Now go to your room aud prepare your dis
course.”
Francis obeyed ; but if he had been told to
go and prepare for execution, he / mid scarce
have felt worse.
A little before the appointed hour, eight
iu the evening, the coach of thovMarquis de
Feuelon halted before the elegant hotel of
the Duches de Beauvilliers, situated upon
the Place Rayale, in Paris. From it de
scended a pale, trembling youth, iu the
gown and bands of a clergyman. There
had been a fall of snow ; the air was sharp
and piereiug, and the youth shivered, both
from cold and terror.
But while thus engrossed in his own fears
and troubles, he saw leaning against a stone
pillar, near the ached entrance-way, a little
lad whose head was resting upon his breast,
aud who was motionless as the carved statues
around him.
Young Fenelou approadied the child. At
first sight, he thought hi® dead, but the hot
tears, silently coursing down the wan, chill
ed face, told of life—yet it was life given
over to a grim, dumb sorrow, that seemed
strange in one so young.
Three times Francis addressed the boy,
before arousing him from Iris stupor.
“Poor little fellow ! What is the matter ?”
lie asked pitifully.
“Oh ! I cannot tell you, Monsieur ; please
let me weep in silence ; no one can help
me.”
"But you cannot weep here all night—you
will freeze to death.”
“Ah, I would so gladly die !” was the des
pairing answer.
“Die, at your age ! Tell me, what is your
great sorrow ?”
“Oh, it is something too terrible to speak
of, Monsieur ; I have lost my whole fortune,
and such a large fortune, too. I earned
it singing at the ptblic and private con
certs.”
“How much was thisjlarge fortune ?”
“Three hundred and forty-four francs,
sir."
Siftiiffit Christian |Wtaca%
“And how long were you in earning it ?”
“Three years. I came here when only
nine years old; I am now twelve. I had
saved it for my poor parents, and to-mor
row I was going to Anvergn9 to take it to
them.”
“Aud how have you lost it ?”
“Ah, me ! I don’t know. I suppose it
must have been stolen. I was so proud of
my money that I was carrying it around in
a little green leather bag, and showing it to
all I met. I don’t think any one could be
so wicked as to steal it from me. ”
“Take this,” said young Fenelon, slipping
a coin into the boy’s hand, “and do not stay
here in the open air.”
“No, keep your money,” replied Pierrot,
sadly'; “my father does not allow me to ac
cept money I have not earned. Yet I thank
you all the same,”.
Astonished at such excess of delicacy in
one so young, Francis pondered for a mo
ment as tjxjiow he might find some way of
helping tiiefboy regain his money. A sud
den idea seemed to strike him; he smiled
and took Pierrot by the hand.
“Follow me,” he said, and still leading
he entered the hotel. “My good
woman,” said hep addressing the old pot
tress, “take euro of this boy until my return,
and, above fill, see thaU he is thoron'diL
warned.” V $ ’
“Ah, it is little Pierrot !” exclaimed the
woman. “With pleasure, Monsieur ;we all
love this young lad very dearly ; ‘he is a
brave little fellow !”
Enchanted with this kind reception of his
protege, Fenelon passed up the grand stair
case, and, after a little delay, appeared iu
the saltm. The most select aud brilliant
circle of Paris was assembled at the hotel
of the Duchess do Beauvilliers. All had
heard that a sermon was to be preached by
a youth of sixteen years, an event such as
had happened only once in Paris, twenty -
four years ago, when the preacher was
Bossuet.
The sermon had been announced for
eight o’clock ; it was half an hour past that
time, and the young preacher had not ar
rived. All were growing impatient, aud
the Marquis de Fenelon was much disquieted.
“My nephew is very timid,” he said ; “that
must excuse his delay, but he will not fail
to keep his word. Ladies, when he does
come, encourage him, I implore you, for he
is diffident as a youug girl who has seen
nothing of the world.”
At this moment a lackey announced Mes
sieurs de Bossuet stiff de Fenelon. Both
advanced to the Duehess and saluted her.
Then the l)uehos3 led young Fenelon to the
place reserved for the Grafter of the evening,
where, with a few very kind and gracious
words she left him
Fenelon rose to begin his discourse, but,
instead of the timid, trembling neophyte,
whom the Marquis’ words led them to ex
pect, the assembled ladies aud gentlemen
saw a young man of quiet, modest bearing,
whose calm face and beautiful forehead
wore no trace of ’>erplexity or embarrass
ment.
His text was those words of our Savior,
“The poor ye have always with yon.” In
the most eloquent and touching manner he
descanted upon the sorrows of the poor,
contrasting their lot of toil and self denial
with the ease and luxury rSbwtid him, and
dwelling upon the duty, ns well as the pleas
ures of charity. Then, simply and briefly,
he told the story of little Pierrot, with
whose sweet, childish voice, nearly every
one present was familiar, for the boy had
been quite a pet of the musical public. He
closed with :i moving appeal to all blessed
with this world’s goods, to remember the
poor, and at this very moment to open their
hearts arid purses to one of Christ’s “little
ones,” in the sorest need of aid, aud thus
fulfill theisjuuetiwu of the Master. All pres
seut, e\ en tire great pulpii orator. Bossuet,
pressed forward (o congratulate the young
appointed because Francis had not made a
display of his own learning, muttered, “But
this was not a sermon ; no arrangement, no
method— ’’
“It came from the heart,” said Bossuet,
“and that is far better.”
“I told him to preach upon “Love to
on/ neighbor’—”
‘Aud lie did,” said flic Duchess Beam'd
iiers, as she entered the room, leading little
Pierrot by the hand. “Ladies and gentle
men," said the Duchess, passing around a
purse of crimson velvet, “let us show our
appreciation of the sermon, and our obedi
ence to the command of Him who lias in
spired it, by the liberality of our alms to
this poor child and all hastened to fill the
purse even to the golden clasp.
Then the Duchess handed it to Pierrot,
saying, “The purse and all it contains are
yours, to make up for what has been stolen
from yon.”
“All this money ?” asked Pierrot, open
ing his eyes. “It it a great deal, more than
I have lost.”
“Never mind, it is yours,” said the Duch
ess.
“But I have not earned it,” replied Pier
rot, “and my father has forbidden—-”
“Take the money, dear child,” said Bos
suet, advancing ; “virtue has its reward as
well as work, and if yon have not earned it
by work, you have by your good conduct.”
“And, if you want to pay something be
sides,” added young Feuelon, “sing us one
ol' your sweetest songs.”
The boy no longer hesitated. He took
the purse, his face beaming with joy, aud,
on the breathless, expectant silence that fol
lowed tho youug preacher’s words, his voice
arose, heavenly clear and sweet, iu a song
he had lArued at his mother’s knee—a song
ol’ his mouutain home, of his Auvergne 1
“Uncle de Feuelon.” Francis ventured to
say, “if my sermon was not learned or able,
or well arranged, it has had a practical ap
plication in the love to our neighbor we
have witnessed here to-night.”
“My nephew, you will be the glory of
your family,” said the Marquis de Feuelon,
deeply moved, “and, what is still better,
you will be the happiness of all around you.”
Aud the words were verified. Francis de
Salignac de la Mothe Feuelon, though al
ways the most unobtrusive, least self-assert
ing of meu, was never more troubled with
that painful timidity which had threatened
to blight the promise of his youth. He lived
to be an Archbishop, a renowned pulpit ora
tor, aud an author whose writings are still
extensively read and adn sred. But far bet
ter than all his worldly honors and dignities,
was his life, rich in deeds of love aud charity
to all around him, and adorned with every
Christian grace and virtue. — Advance.
“Tl»e God of Our Fathers.”
Max Muller, in his third lecture on the
“Science of Religion,” observed: “I wish
to call back to your recollection the fact that
in exploring together the ancient archives
of language, we found that the highest god
had received tho same name in the ancient
mvthology of India, Greece, Italy and Ger
many, anil had retained that name whether
worshipped on tho Hiamalayan mountain,
or among the oaks of Dodona, on the Capi
tol, or iu the forests of Germany. I pointed
out that his name was llyaus in Sanskrit,
Zeus in (Greek, Joris in Latin, Tin in Ger
man; but I hardly dwelt with sufficient
strength on the startling nature of this dis
covery. These names are not mere names:
they are historical facts—aye, facts more
immediate, more trustworthy than many
facts of medieval history. These words
are not mere words, but they bring before
us with all the vividness of an event
which we witnessed ourselves but yesterday,
the ancestors of the whole Aryan race, thou
sands of years, it may be, before Homer and
the Veda, worshipping an unseen Being, un
der the self-same name, the best, the most
exalted name they could find in their voca
bulary, under the name of Light aud Sky.
And iet us not turn away and say that this
was, after all but nature worship and idola
try. No, it was not meant for‘that, though
it may have been degraded into that in later
times’; I)yaus did not mean the blue sky,
nor was it simply tho sky personified: it was
meant something else. We have in the
Veda, the invocation Dyaus pilar, the Greek,
Zeu paler, the Latin Jupiter; aud that means
in all the three languages what it meant be
fore these three languages were torn asunder
—it means Heaven-Father! These two words
are not mere words; they are to my mind
the oldest poem, the oldest prayer of man
kind, —or at least of that pure branch of
it to which we belong,—and I am as firmly
convinced that this prayer was atie)s4, that
this name was given to the uuJuftfwu God
before Sanskrit was Sanskrit ana Wreck v*as
Greek, as when I see the Lord’s 'ftßNf' in
the languages of Polynesia sad Melanesia
I feel certain that it was first’ altered in the
language of Jerusalem. We little thought
when we heard for the first- time the name
of Jupiter, degraded it maybe by Homer or
Ovid into a scolding husband or a faithless
lover, what sacred records lay enshrined in
this holy name. We shall have to learn the
same lesson again and again in the Science
of Religion, viz: that the place whereon we
stand is holy ground. Thousands of
have passed since the Aryan nations sepa
rated to travel to the North and the South,
the West and East; they have each formed
their languages, they have each founded em
pires and philosophies, they have each built
temples and razed them to the gronnd; they
have all grown older, and it may be wiser
and better; but when they search for a name
for what is most exalted and yet most dear
to every one of us, when they wish to ex
press both awe and love, the infinite and the
‘finite, they can but do what their old fathers
did when gazing up to the eternal sky, and
feeling the presence of a Being as far as far
and as near as liea ,- can lie; they but com- i
bine thq se’f-snifcjr v \ j >u»i t ittcr once ’
more the primeA r.t{i put) or, Heaven
Father, in that form which will endure for
ever, ‘Our Father which art iu heaven.’”
The Future.
When another life is added
To the heaving, turbid mass ;
When another breath of being
Stains Creation’s tarnished glass;
When a low voice, weak and tremulous,
Herald’s long enduring pain,
And a soul from non-existence
Springs which shall ne’er die again;
When the mother’s passionate welcome,
Sorrow-like bursts forth Yij'tfars,
And the sire’s self-gratolai.iA
Prophesies of future years.
It is well we cannot see
What the end shall be.
. When the boy, upon the threshold
Os his ail-comprising home,
Puts aside the arms maternal
That enlock him ere he roam ,
When the canvas ol his vessel
Plutters to the favoring gale,
Y ears of solitary exile
Hid behind her sunny sail;
When his pulses beat with ardor,
And ids sinews stretch for toil,
And a hundred bold emprises
Lure him to that Eastern soil,
it is well we cannot see
What the end may be.
When the youth beside the maiden
Looks into her credulous eyes,
And the heart upon the surface
Shines too happy to be wise:
He, by speeches less than gestures,
Hinteth what her hopos expound,
Laying out the waste hereafter
Like enchanted garden ground !
He may falter—so may many.
She may suffer—so must all,
Both may yet, world disappointed,
This last hour of love recall,
it is well we cannot see
What the end may be.
When before religiou’s altar
Stands the expectant bridal pair,
Aud the vow that lasts till dying
Vibrates on the sacred air;
When man’s lavish protestations,
Doubts of after change defy,
Comforting the frailer spirit,
Bound his servitor for aye;
When beneath love’s silver moonbeams
Many rocks iu shadows sleep
Undiscovered till a wreck
Ueveals the dangers of the deep,
It is well we cannot see
What the end shall be.
‘*Tl»e Clod of Our Idolatry.’'
“Great Pan is dead” indeed, aud “Jesus
Christ liveth aud reigneth forever;” but
there are “Chambers of Imagery” in every
heart, yet, and before their unholy shrines
what costly offerings, what priceless sacrifi
'oo ."otvl A.IIU . t UOIa 0 ijOti UOWU fcO
them, nor worship them,” was not said only
of the monstrous forms of Egyptian, or the
divine beauty of Greek idols ; it has a sig
nificance which embraces our own times and
prohibits our own idolatries, One of the
most prominent of these is child-worship.
The admiration which parents are ashamed
to lavish ou themselves, they bestow upon
their children. Iu this respect, how few can
lilt up clean hands and say, "I am inno
cent !” However large the circle of your ac
quaintance, if the acquittal of parents de
pended on your finding “ten righteous”
nftes, would yon not need the most extended
charity to produce them ?
I do not know what iu this gray, dreary
day has brought so vividly back to me the
memory of Itieliard Hewitt, and thus led me
to the consideration of this peculiar siu. It
is long enough ago for me to have forgotten
it, aud to-day I see again the little town
among those bleak, black hills, and hear tho
passionate gusts of wind and the wailing
sound of the rudely-stripped elms. I re
member standing in the ruddy blaze that
lighted up the porcelain pictures in the
chimney sides, and being conscious, without
turning to look at my old friend, Dr. Earl,
that he bronght into the room with him
“the shadow of a great affliction.” But I
did not ask what it was; such knowledge
generally comes without invitation. Rest
lessly the good old man paced up and down
the narrow confines of the small parlor,
thoughtfully he stood a few moments at my
side, aud then, as if urged by some sudden
impulse, sat down and hastily wrote a few
lines which lie brought to me and asked mo
to take for him to Mr. Hewitt’s. “He will
not see me,” he added, “and it is necessary
I should know how he receives the informa
tion I send.” I looked, up reluctantly, the
walk was a lonely one, and it was getting
near the gloamiug ; but after I had read the
message, I did not feel at liberty to refuse
to take it. “Mr. Hewitt,” wrote the Dr.,
“your son William lies dying in Dame Simp
son’s cottage, it will be too late iu a few
hours to spare yourself great remorse.”
No picture I have ever seen has so im
pressed me with the inability of wealth to
procure happiness as that of the lonely old
couple in the miserable splendor of the Hew
itt mansion. It was nearly dark, but there
was no light; it was very cold, but there
Iras but a handful of fire. The mother of
the dying man sat before it, silent aud list
less ; the father came to meet me as I en
tered. “There is a note, sir, from Dr. Earl,”
I said. He.took it sharply from me, and
failing to read it by the dim tight’ held it in
moody caimans lAtil a can vie was
brought. As he read I watched the cold, cruel
face, but it made no -sign. Deliberately
tearing the note into two, lie replied, “Tell
Dr. Earl ilfls a trick. I have been deceived
once. I defy any one to deceive me again.”
“What is it?” querulously demanded the
old woman. Y
“Your son WiSjam is dying, madam,” I
answered, my shaking with anger.
She rose bursting into tears,
said, “Wait for nie, I wish to go with you
to him.”
“You will sit down, Elizabeth,” said her
husband, firmly pntting her back in her
chair. “William -jjias delirium tremens, I
suppose.” Then He laid the note upon the
ooals and watched it consume away. No
further notice was taken of me and I gladly
left the house, feeling as I did so an almost
irresistible inclination to see if crossing my
self would not dispefcits evil influence.
The grief of these “people was no uncom
mon one. Their history had in it no ele
ments of romance attract my youthful
imagination, and yet It did, because a visi
ble retribution carries with it always the in
fluence of a visible detty. They had begun
life both of them in the humblest circum
stances, surrounded Iw that bare, decent
poverty, which of itself sometimes exerts a
hardening influence, Richard had the repu
tation of being a pious, prudent young maD,
and Elizabeth was known through all Win
dermere dales as a thrifty, hard-working
woman. Nevertheless, the first years of their
married life were a continued series of dis
asters, ending incomplete bankruptcy. Soon
after this calamity, that tide which comes
once into “the affairs of men,” flowed toward
Richard. He knew how to “take it at the
flood,” and led him “on to fortune.” Bless
ings as well as sorrows are often gregarious.
With wealth and lands came a son to inherit
them. This son was regarded by both pa
rents with an idolatrons affection. All their
own youth had missed was crowded into his.
For his welfare they not only rose early and
sat up late, and eat the bread of carefulness,
but they “ground the faces of the poor,”
and earned a name for cruelty and extortion
PUBLISHED BY J. W. Bfflj|KE CO., FOR THE M. E. CHURCH, SOUTH.
MACON, GA., WEDNESDAY, MARCH 8, 1871.
which not the charity which comes vitU
death could quite forgive. Not contensith
making all within their gates bow dor to
their idol, the boy was set up- like Gier s
cap for the whole village to do homaf to.
And poverty, and interest, and fearrei red
this hateful obeisance, though with biff
ness and grudging. The father was mis
ceived by this apparent respect. Hatr U
omniscient. He felt if he did not health
.curses daily lavished on liis pride, List;
Ipreasiou, and his miserly disposition. L/C
them in the gloomy silence and the
fill from his vicinity of those not within m
pale of his revenge. Felt them no le
the enforced smile and the humble civiSß
of those who acknowledged his power.
Kieliard and Elizabeth Hewitt cared for
of these things. “The boy William,” ■
their world ; their bank-book consoled
for the loss of all human respect aud ■
pathy. Indeed, what special need had i r
of it? Adversity they had forgotten, if
acknowledged neither the right nor the vl u
to share their prosperity with any one. I I
liam Hewitt grew np and stood beside its
father like his own youth,” the same in p--
sonal appearance, with the same proud,
fish und
.by continual indulgence and jmlirhjr
Khorify. Ba®they bad no four oi t .ME
'theirwealth hedgedthemin ; and whntuiwv
asouult the g Aden gates ? “I shall never Li i
adversity,” was the secret thought of tl>.
hearts. Alas 1 how often such thoughts, >
prophecies of evil, the accomplishment f
which “follows hard after” their foreshf
owing. The first cloud on Richard Hewit ?
sky was the news of his son’s dissipation si 7
idleness. From his college came evil rum A,
of drunkenness and extravagance, finiJP
disgrace and rustication. This did not if
prove the young man. He went rapidly fr.o
bad to worse. At length Mr. Hewitt’s si.
was opened and robbed. Ali bis efforts
fix the crime on others only implicated
own son deeper, and to escape persecute n
the young manned. Keenly as the falti-r
must have suffered, he gave no outward sL.n
of it, and into the misery of his home vey
few got a glimpse. But in the village v-_
poor woman who worked occasionally thei.,'
told sad stories of the half-crazy old motlnr
wandering feebly about the house, weepiig
tor her sun, ami of the stern, silent mai,
who sat hours together without utteriig
a word, except to qniet her lamenting.
Years of untold yearning and sorrow fal
lowed, and only once did Richard Hewit
hear from his prodigal sou. In that letter
he told his father that he was dying in Laa.
bon, and begged him to send some heJpf’Y'
his destitute wife. Greatly touched by
love and penitence expressed, he remitteda'
large sum of money with promises of mode ,
effective assistance ; but on investigation L (
was evident he had been made a victim of a. l
clever scheme, and that his soil had left Lii
bon as soon as he had received the money
The blow was almost harder to bear than
the first. If there had been any lingering
remains of faith in God or man, this decep
tion forever destroyed them. He became t.
misanthrope aud a recluse. In spite of gos
and lands he was so wretched and poor thi
no shepherd on the hills would for a momei
have changed place with him. It was aboil
three years after this event that I took hiiai
the note from Dr. Earl. His sou was really
dying now, gasping out iu misery and de
spair his few remaining hours; and, per
haps, scarcely less miserable that night wort,
tho doubting, grieved father, and the yearn’:
ing, broken-hearted mother. If the form'
was intending to be more merciful on auotl •
er day, or to another message, he never had
the opportunity. When the sun rose again;*
Richard aud Elizabeth Hewitt were child •
less. His son died in my friend’s arms, re
seuling with his last breath his father’s ueg*
lect, aud findiimjte excuse for all his wasted
life, '“lt o',tsftimer sfl ttdl. ”
And wi utea- 1
wretched parents the son's dying charge
against them, and iu the lom'v wiuter days
that followed, what memories'-of wronged
and cruelly-treated dependents must have
wandered through that gloomy house, anil
tormented their despairing hearts !
The greatest of our poets asks,
“Happy always was it for that son
Whose father, for his hoarding, went to hell ?” -»
And wo answer, no ; never happy for him ;
never prosperous for him. Much money
brings no interest but sorrow. Bat happy
always is it lor that son whose father “de
vised liberal things,” who laid up for hit
children in the Bank of Heaven, aud lent
his increase unto the Lord.
One cohl, bleak day, in the following,
March, I passeil the Hewitt mansion with
my friend Dr. Earl. All was still aud si leu),
as if it had been a literal tomb, but repast
ing again we were amazed to see a little
group of excited gentlemen around the door
No sooner did the Doctor’s carriage come U
sight than it was hailed and stopped. “Yob
are wanted here immediately. Doctor,” said
a gentleman coming toward ns with a scared
and blanched face.
“What is the matter.”
“Mrs. Hewitt is dead ;” and then, in
shuddering whisper, “She has lin <-r herself, t
Is Richard and Elizabeth Ho wifi's idolatrjU
an exceptional case V Nay, but every our"
can recall almost parallel experiences. And
let us beware lest peradventuro we find them
nearer home than we believed, and in cast
ing the mote out of our neighbor's eye, we
forget the beam in our own.— Chris! Tot
Union.
A Mother’s Influence.
The itiflueuce of our mothers canu t be :
estimated. It is incessantly at work, mould
ing tho thoughts aud habits of coming gen
erations. Mothers pass away; but whi;.«-
their bodies slowly return to dust, tlicwjfe
on in their posterity. For weal or
they have impressed themselves upon C-V
inner life of their children. The memories
of childhood’s home are ineffaeeabh R
that home has been joyous, a halo of gld v
encircles it—if sad, then the reinembraimfi
of those dark days becomes painful. Auiol ,)J
all the persons and things connected with!
the “long ago,” the mother necessarily oc 'J
enpies the chief place. It was her sweet 1
voice that sung the lullaby of infancy—it ,
was her soft hand that smoothed the brow, jj
wiped away the tear, or soothed the wants i
of boyhood; it was upon her breast our ‘
head reclined to unbosom the sorrows of i
youth, and if ii. the riper years of man J
hood, tribulation met is in the cold world®
our dear mother’s ear was the most sympag|
thetie we could find.
Well do I remember how my mother
taught me of God and heaven. How, as my
mind expanded, she told me the “old, old ;
story,” and answered the many questions ,
that perplexed my youthful brain. How, i
with a reverence that was unmistakable, she t
kneeled by our side to commit her boy to
the care of her Father in Heaven, and then 1
taught me to repeat the sweet prayer of I
childhood.
Since then I have heard infidels ridicule!
religion, have seen sinners transgressing m
have myself wandered far from the path ofl
duty, but iu the darkest and hardest mo- *
inents of my life, I have never ceased ten
feel my mother’s influence. It is
years since my mother went to heaven, and
gray hairs are here and there gathering upon
yet even now I am not ashamed to
acknowledge that the known will of my
pious mother is still as law to me. My
long-cherished anticipation is to meet her
in heaven.
Mothers, Christian mothers, your every
movement, word, look, action; your pre--
ferences and objections; your labors and
recreations; your reverence or irreverence;
your every-day piety, or spasmodic devo
tion, your elevation of thought and habit/ 1
or the opposite, are all felt in the hearts ami
lives of your children. /
Their eyes, cars aud minds are quick as
the lightning flash to discern, and in an un
guarded moment you may undo the labor
of years. If you would have your children
(especially your boys) brought up to “know
the love of Christ, which passeth knowl- ,
edge,” then be earliest and sincere in your
attachment aud devotiou to Him. Above
all, let your children never be in doubt
concerning the highest wish of your soul*
Let them know, let them
feel that you would rather see them Chris
tians than millionaires, humble followers
of Jesus, than filliug the highest places of
power and emolument. Let a mother’s
prayer follow them conscientiously wherever
they go, and through all time, and your
“labor shall not be in vain in the Lord.”
When life's record is complete, and the ac
count demanded, you will be able to say.
“Here am I and the children thou hast
giMmo.” The brightest stars that can
shine in a mother’s crown of glory will l>o
her own children, led by her hand to Jesus.
Mothers, may your crowns sparkle with
these jewels!”
On the Art of Lying.
There is an art iu it, but you have no need
that I write unto you about it. That remark
reads as if yon are so familiar with the art,
£8 to require no further instruction ! Such
is not the intent, but this : you aro so free
from tendencies in that direction, you so
love, honor and cherish the truth as the ho
liest of holies, that I need not spend time
in giving you lessons in art you will never
practice nor preach.
Nor will I give lessons for anybody iu this
art, which is so well understood as to require
no books to teach it, no rules to govern it.
It has its masters everywhere. They go
astray, said the ancient poet, from the birth,
speaking lies. It was lying that began the
. all in Eden, and it has been growing ever
I since. Iu some ..oun tries it is so e amnion,
! SSTh telling of lies, that no one believe his
neighbor. The Greeks are said to be great
liars. In heathen countries very slight re
gard is paid to the truth. We are in the
habit of saying that Roman Catholics regard
the truth with less sacredness than wo do.
This is true of some classes, servants for ex
ample, with whom we come more frequently
into contact than with otheis. Mr. A. called
upon 8., to inquire the character of a ser
vant, aud the following conversation oc
curred. I heard it.
A. —I wish to inquire regarding the char
acter of Bridget f who says she has been
employed in your service.
B. Yes ; sho was an excellent servant,
she had but one fault; she is a Roman
Catholic, and you know they will lie-
A. Yes, I know it; though my wife is a
Roman Catholic!
B. —I beg your pardon a thousand times.
It was very improper for mo to make the re
mark I did, and especially to a stranger. I
am mortified beyoud measure, and ask you
to forgive me.
A. —You need not make any apologies,
my wile and I often make the same remark
inspecting our servants ; of course, neither
you nor she would apply the observation to
any but the ignorant and uncultivated ; but
‘ .t is too true that they will deceive, and that,
Lip, when it would be just ns well and better
if tell the truth.
But I do not know that lying is any more
common among them than among large
classes of people who call themselves Pro
testants. Take the money-making men,
who get their gains by the rise and fall of
prices. Is it any strange thing for them to
*et on foot a lie to affect the market V Being
myself iu the newspaper line, I would be
rery slow to intimate that newspapers ever
_.iay anything that is not strictly true. But
when two of the daily papers get into a quar
rel, the tricks of the trade sometimes come
out; and we have reason to fear that some
times in default of news from the seat of
war, there is a manufacture of “cable tele
giams” aud “letters from our correspon
dent,” which aro palmed off upon the un
suspecting public as veritable facts. This is
Ijiug, and there is great art in it. A litterateur
i fid me that he prepares a weekly article for
one of the city papers on the “Rats of Bra
or the “Cockroaches iu Japan,” or
1 something of that sort; “Not that there are
’ any,” said he, “but I make a sensational
chapter on a snbject that few can know any
thing about, aud I get ten dollars lor it.
That pays my board. ” Here was a specimen
of the art of lying ; indeed, it was elevated
•o the rank of the tine arts. Certainly it
Tor sate as an origimtl which !m:; been cop
ied from a copy and half ruined to make it
bear the marks of age.
There is another art that eouies under the
same head, or on the same lioad, and that
is—the art of coloring the hair. One of my
ministerial acquaintances undertook to lie
about his hair,—that is, to dye it,—aud the
chemical compound that he used produced
such a frightful color, that he was frightened
with"the fear of divine judgment on his
head. I think dyeing is lying. Whether a
.man or woman does it, the motive is a bad
Lue, the intent is to deceive, and that is the
very essence of lying. lam told that one
half of the men who go to our church dye
their hair habitually, aud if so, I shall run
the chance of giving offence to many whom
I would much rather please.
You ask a mechanic to do a job for you.
It is his trade ; he wants to do it, and he
gets his pay for it. He promises you it shall
be done by Saturday night. Another cus
tomer and another comes, and he w'ishes to
serve them all anJ get their money. He
mak< s the same promise, well knowing that
some of must be disappointed. Job after
job is thus engaged, and the same promise
repeated, with the dead certainly that it will
be broken, This is the art of lying applied
.o a trade. And it runs through a hundred
r trades. It destroys confidence in human
nature. But it is the custom, and as uni
versal iu Christian countries us in heathen.
There is very little conscience about it.
“Other people do so, and the job will go
somewhere else if I do not promise,” and so
it is taken, and the lie is told.
Borrowers are often great liars. , There is
less conscience in this than in almost any
other matter. Many a man who would see
a twenty dollar bill lying on my table aud
never think of stealing it, will ask me to
lend it to him and never pay it. Or, what
is next door to tho same thing, will not pay
it when he promises to. I have heard of a
1 clergyman iu this city, who would get his
check cashed after bank hours by a friend,
who will find the next day that the minister
has no money in the bank, and never had !
I do not think there is any true religion in
the heart of a man who borrow.i ; bad does
.not pay when he engages to do so. Misfor
tune may overtake him, and unforeseen cir-
Snmstances prevent his doing his duty;
such cases are exceptional. But borrowers
often great liars. I would there were
Sore conscience in the matter of books. A
■pend gave me four volumes of a Latin class
m with aFrench translation, elegantly bound
Mi gilt calf. A Quaker friend asked me to
Bend him one volume of it for a special twr
ru,.se, with the promise of its speedy retS?. a.
Itilas 1 ho never did bring it back ; and when
sent for it, he said be had mislaid, lost it!
The three remu ring volumes are standing
up before me this moment, silent witnesses
’that this friend was—well, what shall I call
him ; to say he was a liar or a thief is hard,
hut he injured me quite as much as if he had
stolen my hook. And he certainly broke
his promise. If that is not the art of lying,
it was the art of book-keeping, and I have
| the best of reasons to know that the art of
1 book-keeping is not one of the lost arts.
I Truth between man and man is one of the
(cardinal virtues. It is at the basis of good
and of honorable success in life.
It despises shams in public and private.
| Hating deception of every form and kind,
all glosses, paints, covers, disguises, subter
fuges, tricks, evasions, everything that
maketli a lie, that misleads or deceives an
other ; it is always above board, frank, man
ly, courageous aud faithful. Iu the church
and in the world there is an abundant lack
of this vital element of honest truth. It fs
not always good manners to call a spade, but
to attempt to deceive is to lie, and for the
‘want of a better word, I use it in this letter.
It was a great poet and a good man who
once said in haste, “Ann men are wars.” I
J do not venture upon so broad and unwar
rantable an assertion.* I should be untrue,
if I did. But with every desire to lie chari
table aud withiu bounds, and not so hasty
as the bard of old, I am constrained to say
with Reeorker Riker, “this practice is quite
too common in the community. ”— N. Y. Obs.
“What I Am.” —“I am not what I ought to
, be! Ah! how imperfect and deficient! I
am not what I wish to be! ‘I abhor wlint is
! evil,’ aud I would ‘cleave to what is good!’
II am not what I hope to be! Soon, soou I
I shall put off mortality, and, with mortality,
I all sin and imperfection! Yet, though lam
not what I ought to be, nor what I wish to
j be, nor what i hope to be, I can truly say, I
am not what I once was—a slave to sin aud
Satan; aud I can heartily join with the
apostle, and acknowledge, ‘By Ike grace of
Ood J am what 1 am!' ” —John Newton.
Walking Witli God.
lie walks wiili God ! Enough for me
That this I in my brother see:
I ask not what his rank or name,
Whether obscure, or rieli in fame,
Who fall before him, or who rise;
If he be ignorant or wise.
lie walks with God! To Him allied,
He presses closely to His side; «
No more of him 1 ask to know,
But gladly 1 with him will go;
My brother he, my dearest friend;
W'ith him I would a life-time spend.
He walks witli God! Oh kinship sweet,
For Saints aud angels only, meet,
How steadfast and how true the heart
That from its Master will not part!
Though never warm or true to me,
I love it, Lord, for loving Thee.
He walks with God ! Nor ever heeds
Over what heights his pathway leads,
Or where to valley dips the road,
Enough for him to be witli God.
Enough that earthly joy or pain,
Tempting can only tempt in vain.
He walks with God! I lift mine eye
And see what fields before him He;
The river clear, the pasture green;
What matters what may intervene,
Lord, when he is at home, with Thee
O let his mantle fall on me!
Shadow and Sunsliine—Two Pic
tures.
BY A KEGtTLAB COKTKIBUTOIt.
Saturday morning, and a sermon prepare
for to-morrow. No easy task when the head
is aching and the spirits are heavy as lead.
Little did I know what awaited me when at
ten o’clock at night, iu a crowded church,
amid almost breathless silence, the bishop
read the long list of appointments, and read
mo off for “Eden.” I breathed a sigh of re
lief. I was to go to Eden; a pleasant place
it must bo, to have so sweet a name; a gar
den-spot no doubt, though not without its
thorns.
“O Brother Smith! I am going to Eden.
“Are you?” ho said with a somewhat pe
culiar look, iu response to my enthusiasm.
“Hope you will like it. The mountain
scenery is magnificent —in the summer
season; the air pure, aiul—and —a very
healthy place.”
“But what about the people?”
“Oh!” said he rather hurriedly, “they are
like the people in otlie* places, probably.
Some are better than others, but you will
lind out all about them in good season.”
Prophetic words! We gain wisdom by ex
perience, especially if the experience is a
rough one. I can interpret now my friend’s
peculiar look and tone, and his impatience
to close the conversation when I asked
about the people of Eden. What could he
say when the theme was so uninspiring?
This is, indeed, a beautiful region of coun
try, and many a pleasant w r alk have I had
among the hills. But then the people are
so indifferent to the truth of the gospel,
and wall come to hear it preached only when
the skies are clear and the roads are good.
I pass the throng of farmers on the door
step of the church on a line Sunday morn
ing, and in the lauguage of the Apocrypha,
“their talk is of bullocks.” But once in
the church, how their animation vanishes!
How little effect is the most earnest preacli
ing of the gospel seems to have upon them!
These farmers in Eden are growing rich
very fast. But their wealth does them no
good, for they ure the victims of two evil
spirits—tho spirit of grumbling aud the
spirit of covetousness. What a scene was
presented that dreary April morniug, iu the
parsonage, at tho First Quarterly Confer
ence, when the solemn question was asked:
“What amount lias been apportioned for
the pastor’s salary for the year?” The com
mittee were not prepared to report, and re
ferred the subject to the Conference. There
was a pause, when Brother Growl exclaimed,
as though he had received a personal iujury:
liy sending us a married man. Ve never
asked for him.”
“No, indeed,” said Brother Echo, who is
a kind of secon fiddle in the Quarterly Con
ference orchestra, and a very discordant
fiddle at that —“no, indeed! and we can’t
pay any more than we did last year—§3oo.".
“Brethren,” said a §50,000 farmer in a
cheerful tone,” let us devise liberal things.
The preacher and his family must live, and
prices are high. I move wo promise to give
§4OO, and that we raise the amount—if we
can!”
“Cannot you raise tho amount?” said the
Presiding Elder in a tone which was rather
too gentle.
“Certainly,” was tho very satisfactory re
ply, “if the people will give it.”
Four hundred dollars a year to keep the
prenclier, wife and; child, pay house-rent,
purchase books, and give to charity! But
then the amount will never be paid in full.
“If not,” said one of the brethren, “we’ll
make it all right by a donation-party.”
Yes, aud tlio “donation-party” will bo du
ly heralded iu the papers as an example of
generosity, when it is ouly a wretched ex
pedient to give tho minister a meagre living.
And then to hear the people say, as I walk
many a weary mile over the hills to see
them: “Brother, you look tired—you ought
to keep a horse.” Ahorse! Pay half the
salary for a horse, and tho otter half to
keep the costly beast iu hay and oats, aud
leave tho family penniless. A horse! !
But it does no good to dwell upon the
subject. The flook in Eden have thick
fleece-pity then that the shepherd is scarce
ly clothed. , ■ «v*
Oh! the anxious care, tho pitiful efforWj“
economy, the shadow of over-increasing
debt, which might so easily be avoided, if
those who listen to tho preacher would sup
port him out of their abundance! How
gloomy the vision!
Hark! a knock at tho door—a loud, hear
ty knock. Who can it be? Wife, run to
the door; precious baby do cry—not quite
so loud. Hark! a murmur of voices—aud
persons pass into the parlor; and here comes
the wife, her face as smiling as a flower gar
den in June. Is it possible?—a couple to
get married!—a wedding—the first in the
parsonage! Quick! my best coat. Now,
then, where is tho “Discipline.” That lit
tle book is always missing when wanted—
always playing hide, and seek among the
books and papers. Here it is. Now, then
advance!
A wedding—what music iu the word!
How the bells ring, and the merry laugh is
beard, and n<' "tie weeps the mother of
the bride—though"!-, fy \ve cannot tell -and
all the scene is bright with the glarg—often
the deceitful glare—from mischievous Cu
pid’s torch. But look at the couj le waiting
to have the minister pronounce them man
and wife. HI), an honest young farmer,
who lives at Sharp’s Cross-Roads; awkward
even for a groom, with hair of fiery red—l
mean a very emphatic shade of sunny au
burn—and velvet vest to match. But she—
she, the prettiest little maiden in all this re
gion—so, timid, and blushing like the rosy
morn, and yet so proud and happy —the
loveliest bride I ever saw, of course with
one exception. How in the name of all that
is wonderlul could such a woman fancy such
a man?
Well, the wedding is over—they are gone;
but not gone the sunshine which their
presence brought.
“What a pretty bride! But how much
was the fee?”
“Oh! tho fee! Here it is. What! is it
possible?—ten dollarsl”
“Is it possible?”
“Certainly it is. But what is the matter?
—tears in your eyes! Aro you sorry that I
have a respectable wedding fee?”
“Oh! no; but how providential—it came
at the right moment. ”
“Yes* indeed; and what is a most remark
able fact, never a stray dollar comes to this
parsonage but it comes just ‘at the right
moment.’ ”
How easy to “rejoice evermore” when
you have teu dollars in your pocket! O
farmer with the auburn hair, and you, his
pretty wife, a hearty wish I givo you, ex
pressed in language poetic, to be sure, yet
not too poetic for your comprehension
gayly may yon trot together in double har
ness, dragging the cart of duty over life’s
rough ways!— The Methodist.
The Secret op Good Work.— Some years
ago I was brought in contact with a colored
man. Ho was nothing but a cobbler—he
said himself he was not a decent shoemakor,
and I can testify to that from some experi
ence of his work. But if not elegantly done,
it was thoroughly done, and that was the
point. He had told mo that when he be
came too old and crippled to work in the
field and house, he took to cobbling. I said
to him:
“My friend, after this cobbling on earth
is done, how about that other world. Have
yon any hope for a better world?”
“Ah! master,” said lie, “I am nothing, as
I told you, but a poor cobbler, but I feel
when I sit here and work at my stool, that
tlie good Master is looking at me, and when
I take a stitch, it is a stitch, and when I put
on a heeltap, it is not papor but good
leather.”
It is not the work we do upon earth that
makes the whole of life, but it is the way in
which we do that work—it is the motive,
“Thou, God, seest me.” —Good Words.
The Grace that Pincl»e9.
The prevailing sin of tho day is self-indul
gence. It is eating like a canker into the
life of many of our churches. It leaves
Christ’s ministers to address empty pews on
unploasant Sabbaths. It robs Christ’s treas
ury to keep up a showy “turn-out.” If it
hangs a bough of profession ovor on the
c/iim:A-side of the dividing wall, yet its roots
aro deep down in the soil of tlie world. It
is often ready to deny Christ—-but sel
dom ready to deny self.
The most popular doctrine to preach in
these times, and the hardest one to practice,
is the old-fashioned apostolic doctrine of
self-denial. This is the grace that pinches.
The daily battle of Christian principle is
with that artfnl, subtle, greedy sinner, self.
And Hie highest victory of our religion is
to follow Jesus over the ragged path of
self-denial. This is mainly to bo done in
the little every-day acts of life. The great
occasions that demand sublime sacrifices are
few and rare.
The Christian who suppresses a jost or a
witticism, because it would burlesque Iris
religion, practices self-denial. When ho
speaks out a bold but unpopular word for
the right—in “fashionable society”—he is
really taking up a cross for his Master. All
genuine acts of philanthropy are born of tlio
noble principle to deny self, aud to honor
Christ in the persons of those for whom
Christ suffered.
The mission-school teacher who sallies off
through the driving storm to carry his gos
pel-loaf to a group of hungry children, is an
example of this. Why should I sit by the
warm tire on my sofa to-day? Christ will
look for me among my class.” The seam
stress who drops her hard-earned dollar into
the Memorial Fund collection, is really en
throning her Saviour above herself.
We cannot emphasize too strongly this
grace which pinches selfishness. I care not
how orthodox is a man's creed, or how elo
quent may be his prayers in public, if he has
never learned to say “wo” to tho demands
of fashion, and pride, and luxury, he is but
a sorry specimen of the Christ’s-man.
There are thousands of professed Chris
tians, who are unwilling to deny themselves
the paltry gartification of a glass of wine or
ale in order to help the sentiment of total
abstinence to become popular, or to aid iu
saving the “weak brother who stumbleth.”
They know that they are sotting a bad ex
ample when they use, or offer the poison
cup. They know that they are throwing
their influence on the side of the tipplerH.
Yet because it is “genteel” to partake of
wine or punch, they do not hesitate to “take
a drop” in the social circle. Perhaps they
thrust the decanter before some weak, ternpt
able friend to his everlasting damnation! If
the drunkard shall “not inherit the king
dom of heaven,” what right has a professed
Christian to ask to be admitted to heaven if
he hare Helped to make a drunkard of bis
neighbor? I fear that Gold will say to the
“pious” tempter—“that man’s blood will I
jrequire atettiv ha-pda,” Paul acted a
moble precept, “it is good not to drink wine
whereby my brother stumbleth." -
Brethren ! Let u. pray for the grace, that
pinches. If it “goes against the grain”—all
the better. If it wounds our pride, so much
the better. If it makes ns look “singular,”
let ns remember that we are commanded to
be a “peculiar people,” aud not to look like
the votaries of Satan.
Oh! for anew baptism of self-denial! Oh!
for anew training-in that lesson which our
dying Master taught us—which apostles and
martyrs echoed from tlie prison cells, and
kindled stakes—the sublime lesson that,
“Not to ourselves alone,
Not to the flesh we’ll live,
Not to the world henceforth shall we
Oar strength and being give!
No longer be our life
A selfish thing, or vain,
For us, even here, to live be Christ
For ns to die is gain!”
Irreligioi»s*!t!hil«lien.
BY REV. THOS. STREET.
A lady member of my church said to mo
once, ItWliy is it that my children are not
incju&SMO be religious? I see other chil-
whole tendency is to piety—
uniting! with tha Church eally in life, in
terestmiiu dovotihual services, aud growing
in strong attachment to the Church, while
mine are becoming more worldly every day.
Why Is it?” she asked. “I send them to
Huisflay-school; I take them to church overy
lair Sabbath, but no impressions of piety
are made upon them. I cannot understand
it.”
I proposed a few questions:
“Do you show any particular religious
example daily to your children in the house
hold?”
• “I cannot say that I do; but they know
that I am a professor.”
“Yon say that you send them to Sabbath
school aud to church; do you converse with
them about the sermon they have heard, or
tho lesson of the Sabbath-school? or do you
not rather discuss trifles of no religions
bearing before them upon their return?”
“I am afraid the former is never done,
and the latter often. Still, there can’t ho
much harm in that. ”
“Do you ever speak to them personally
about religious duties?”
“No, I do not like to; it is a very deli
cate subject. ”
“Do you have family worship? Do your
children ever hear your voice raised to heav
en for them, and thus know that you have
an interest in their religious welfare?” ,
“No, w ctiiever had futuily worship. My j
Inis band amt 1 are bothffliffiJenl, and never'
could bnng ourselves to pray aloud; but we
do pray for them in secret.”
“Do you allow them indiscriminate resil
ing—newspapers, magazines, books, what
ever they fancy?”
‘•Yes; we never troubled- ourselves about
that. They go to the dirculatiug library
and suit themselves; reading, yon know, is
improving to their minds.'” )
“Do you cultivate worldly tastes in them,
force them into godless society, indulge and
foster the love of fashion, Send them to
dancing-schools, take them to the opera and
theatre, and thus nurture a keen relish for
irreligious pursuits?”
“Yes; they must have some amusement;
their companions all do the same, aud we
want them to be in the best society.”
“Well,” I said, “now look at tho matter
in the light in which you yourself have put
it. Yon are a professiug Christian and
waut your children to be the same. Yet you
do nothing to make them such. Yon give
them no religions counsel. You set them
no religious example. You exercise no re
ligious care over them—let them (those
whom you are appointed to lead aud mould)
go where they please, read what they please,
associate with whom they please. You fos
ter their natural pride aud vanity by indulg
ing their worldly taste. You iuaposo no re
straint, no self-denial. You educate them
iu Ike belief that the highest success in life
is to move iu good society, which means
fashionable society, irrespective of its mor
ality. Yon give them no character-training.
You use no plastic power to shape them af
ter the Divine pattern, and yet you are sur
prised that they are just wliat yon are in
sensibly making them. They naturally look
to you as their guide. Your authority oyer
them is absolute, and yet they see nothing
iu your life and hear nothing from your
lips to elevate their thoughts to a higher
character. Nor is this all. You not only
do nothing, but you give them up to a pow
er that is incessantly influencing them
away fronN Christ. They mingle iu scenes
where godlessness is attractive, where re
ligion is debased before them —they learn to
E. H. MYERS, D D., EDITOR.
WHOLE NUMBER 1840.
feel that it is humiliating to boa Christian.
Tho very vainest thoughts aro nurtured.
The world is never idle; it is always attract
ing, infatuating, educating. You relinquish
your hold upon your children and give
them to tlio world, and then are amazed
that they aro worldly! You sleep, and while
you sleep tho devil sows tares. God will
ask you for thoso children by-aud by. lie
has given you power, positive resources for
their training, and He will ask you to give
them back to him fitted to dwell with him
forever. What can you say when that de
mand is made?
“If when you go to your room to-night
an angel, all-beautiful and glorious, should
appear before you and say, ‘I am command
ed of God, from whom I come, to deliver to
you a precious jewel. Its valuo is beyond
estimate. It is to be placed finally in tho
crown of Jesus, there to remain forever. 1
deliver it to you for safe keeping until it is
called for. If you guard it carefully it will
grow more beautiful and precious every day;
if you neglect it, it will Jio marred and
ruined. This is God’s trust to you; watch
it well.’ What would you d\>?
“That trust would never be absent from
your thought. You would so»vrcely daro to
take your eye from it. You would bo in
spired by it to unrelaxing diligence. Noth
ing would bo neglected to seen) » its safety.
You would bind It upon yosir very heart, ami
defend it with yonr life. And when the
day came on which to deliver it np, you
would be pWhd to present it with lustre in
creased, a jewel worthy of its setting. If it
should bo proposed to you to throw it into
the street, to send it to be exhibited to vul
gar eyes and lingered by irreverent hands,
you would draw back with horror.
“Aud yet God has given you such a
treasure iu your child. An immortal soul,
purchased by Christ’s blood, is entrusted to
your care. You aro to beautify it by in
struction and example. As you regard it,
it will be a jewel for the King’s crown, or a
darkened, blighted spirit, unfitted for heav
enly companionship. And how do you re
spect this trust? You throw it off from
your keeping. You fail to watch it. You
permit tho King’s enemies to surround it
aud impress their taint upon it. It is daily
slipping away from you while you are swift
ly going to God to account for it.
“The reason why your children are irre
ligious is plain from your own acknowledge
ment. The fault is not theirs, but yours.
Change your treatment; give your children
healthful amusement—such as will bo good
for soul and body; teach them to look away
from tho simplest follies for their enjoyment.
Be what a mother should be to her children
—a spiritual director. Establish a confi
dence with them about religious matters.
Let their eyes read upon your heart an in
tense desire for their salvation. Surround
them with a religious atmosphere. Show
them that to be a Christian is to bo cheer
ful, joyous, sunny, while it is exalted purity.
Teach them the sweetness, the ineffable de
light of communion with God. Ask God’s
help upon this course, and you will see the
result you claim to desire. ” Christian Union.
An Incident and a Lesson.
A young man with a warm heart, a few
weeks since, went to the weekly prayer
meeting in one of our large cities. He saw
but a few present—the deacon and his wife,
and here and there another, and it looked
cold and forbidding, and he thought to him
self, “This is too bad,” and said to a young
brother, “Let us go out and find somebody
to come in”—it was a little early—and they
went into the street and saw two young men
standing near, and they went directly to
them and saluted' them iu a kind and gentle
manly manner, saying to them, “We hove a
prayer-meeting right here in the church ;
will you jiot, go in ?” They began to excuse
mentl ? it was asked. They said no, but
further objected. Finally they went in, and
after the meeting closed the youug men
asked them if they had enjoyed themeeting.
They had, one of “them in particular. ’
“But are you a Christian ?” “No, but I
ought to be.” Some kind advico was given
to him, and they parted, and our young
Christian brother had nearly forgotten it,
when one day a young man came to him
aud asked him for his picturo. Surprised,
he inquired, “Why do you want my pic
ture/”’ “Don’t you remember,” said the
other, “you invited two young men at such
a time to the prayer-meetiug ?” He did re
member it. “Well,” said tho other, “I was
one of them, and I went home, and thought
,-of it, and it weighed upon me, aud I thought
over it, and hope I have found peace in bo
lieving.” And now that young man is him
self doing the very work which brought him
in, going into the streets and asking others
to come to the prayer-meeting, and who can
tell the results of that one endeavor to fill
up the prayer-meeting ?
Now tho lesson is fir&fc to Christians. How
seldom do they try to induce others to go to
the prayer-meeting ! They complain of tho
few there, they feel dishearted at it; but do
they try to remedy it ? Should they make
the effort, that of itself, if done sincerely and
prayerfully, will kiudle their own hearts,
would fill their minds with thought, would
prompt them to prayer, aud would bring
them into sympathy with tho Holy Spirit.—
Portland MiiTor.
Advice to a mother.
The first book read and the last book laid
aside by every child is the conduct of its
mother.
1. First give yourself, and then your
child to God.. It is but giving him his
own. Not to do it is robbing God.
2. Always prefer virtue to wealth—the
honor that comes from God to tho honor
tliatcomoß from men. Do this for yourself;
do it for your child.
11. Let your whole course bo to raise your
child to a high standard. Do not sink into
childishness yourself.
4. Give not heedless commands, but when
you command require prompt obedience.
5. Never permit cruelty, even to an insect.
ti. Cultivate sympathy with your child iu
all lawful joys aud sorrows.
7. Be sure that you never correct a child
until you know it deserves correction. Hear
its story first and fully.
8. Never allow your child to whine or
10. The knowledge and fear of the Lord
are the beginning of wisdom.
11. Never mortify the feelings of your
child by upbraiding him with dullness; but
do not inspire him with self-conceit.
12. Pray with and for yonr child, often
aud heartily.
13. Encourago all attempts at self im
provement.
14. Never deceive nor break a promise to
a child.
15. Reprove not a child severely in the
presence of strangers.
1(5. Remember that life is a vapor, ami
that yon and your child may be called out
of time into eternity any day.—S. /S’. World.
Duty and Christian Liberty.—Duty is
not Christian liberty, but it is the first step
toward liberty. We are free only when wo
love wliftt we are to do and those to whom
we do it. Let a man begin iu earnest with,
“I ought,” and he will end, by God’s grace,
if he persevere, with “I will.” Let him
force himself to abound in all small offices
of kindliness, attention, afl'ectionateuess,
and all those for God’s sake. By and by ho
them become the habit of his soul.
A Glasgow merchant, on his death-bed,
sent for a Free Church clergyman. Having
some fears regarding his future prospects,
he asked the reverend gentleman: “Do you
think if I were to leave SIO,OOO to the Free
Kirk that my soul would be saved?” “Well,"
auswered the eantious minister, “I couldn’t
just promise you that, but I think it’s an
experiment well worth trying.”
A Thought on Missions.— A member of
the British Parliament once remarked—“Wo
are exporting a good deal of religion ; lint
it is a singular commodity; the more we
send abroad, the more we have at home.
One of the miseries of life is to be beaten
iu an argument, aDd immediately afterward
to think of some expression which would
have totally annihilated your opponent