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TWO DOLLARS AND FIFTY CENTS.
PER ANNUM.
VOLUME XXXIX., NO. 43.
Original |joctrn.
LINES
INSCRIBED TO THE MEMORY OF DR. E. H. MYERS.
A Christian hero gone!
Oar heirts are saddened now,
But a Father’s hand hath dealt the blow
And we in silence bow.
He was a wa’cbman true
Ou Zion’s sacred walls.
But his work was done and the Lord above
HU spirit heavenward calls.
And from the stricken city,
From bis ministry of love.
From weary watchings by beds of pain,
He goes to Lis home above,
Where no fever's noisome breath
Pollutes the fragrant air.
Where he may rest —and no duty calls
To weariuess and care.
Doubtless the Father saw
His child had need of rest,
So He took him from the scenes of woe
And laid him upon His breast.
And we are left to weep;
How can we the tear!
We thought we needed him most on earth,
He was to the Church so dear.
But Ihe Lord the end do'h see,
And He doeth all things well,
We bow to His will, though to dearest hopes
It be a funeral knell.
Emb timed in a thousand hearts
Our Myers still will live:
May the Cod of love to the widow’s heart
His plenteous comfort give.
And a tender father be
To the children thus bereaved,
And pour the oil of healing in
To the hearts so sorely griev 'd.
Mrs \V. F. Robison.
GOD’S WAYS.
BY KKV. U SINCLAIR BIKL).
He never errs; wise is llis will;
And with the end in view,
Through day and night He gui les us still,
With hand as firm as true.
Did we believe His way D right,
All free from doubt and fear,
As though our path whs plain to 6igbt—
Aft though we 6aw Hina near—
Trustful and calm, because Ilia hand,
Is both defence and guide—
We would submit to His command,
And in His will confide.
Along the road may bloom no rose,
Aud not a star appear.
It recks him uot who surely knows
The Father's eye is there.
The howling storm may sweep the sea;
Behold a radiant form !
It is the Christ of Gallilee,
The ruler of the storm.
Through storm and sunshine, Father, guide;
Thou kuowest well the way;
Through thorns—o’er rocks—whatever be
tide—
Be Thou our guide, we pray.
Femandina , Fla.
Contributions.
LETTER FROM MRS. BRANCH.
Dear Doctor: Those who read my last
letter may remember that I was describing a
day spent in the country near Santa Rosa.
With your permission I will re-ume my story.
We had travelled very quickly over five miles,
when the settlement known as Mark West,
came in view. This was o ice a flourishing
village, but now consists of a district school
house, several deserted store houses, two or
three thrifty farms, and one big ‘‘haunted
house.” Mark West creek runs along side
of all these points of interest, and close by
the yard of sister Maddux, of whose hospital
ities we were about to partake. She met us
at the gate and gave us a kind welcome. It
did not take us long to be socially seated in
her cool parlor, with some needle work in
our hands —so like unto scenes in the past
was our quiet little circle. Mr. Maddux's
mother was there in her white cap, with the
snows of three-score years gleaming in the
hair parted below her cap border. I was
quite entertained with her placid questioning.
She wanted to hear all about our journey out
here, and she grows eloquent over her trip
across the plains, taken so many years ago.
She sat with folded, quiet hands, and with
serene voice told me of a lady, who now lived
somewhere in California, who was actually
scalped by the Indians during that trip. Her
little babe was killed before her eyes, yet she
lived. She had been a happy Christian, but
cruelty, which could not kill, took her heart
of fl“sh away, and gave her instead a heart
of stone. This sad story called forth matiy
others of like character. I never weary of
hearing these “eye witnesses ” relate their
stories of those thrilling times. In like con
verse the morning passed quickly away. We
scarcely noted the absence, at intervals, of
our gentle hostess, yet she prepared with her
own hauds, a meal for us, which would have
pleased the palate of an epicure. Such sav
ory spring chicken pie, such tender, well
cooked beans, such white potatoes, and such
sweet white light bread, is seldom set before
guests. Everywhere here, I find these Cali
fornia house-wives make bread from “salt
rising,” and when their delicious fresh flour
18 used, one cannot imagine a more tempting
loaf. lam sure our young friend, Mr. Saun
ders, truly appreciated the fragrant cup of
coffee, which was handed him by the fair
hands of a maiden of sweet sixteen, a young
daughter of sister Maddux, and a pupil of
Santa Bosa College How insensate must, be
the youths of this favored land, if they do not
joy in the privilege of dining, when waited
upon by charming girls 1 After this refresh
ing feast, came the sweetmeats, and the fruits,
the melons, etc. But I cannot do justice to
the fruits of California here —more of them
hereafter. Having paid our respects to the
dinner, we began a tour of inspection. Al
though this was one of the warm days of our
summer, we found no inconvenience in walk
ing out at mid-day along the banks of the
creek. Imagine how one feels in Georgia,
or Florida, walking out in the sun at two
o’clock on a day in July, without a parasol 1
In an adjoining lot, I discovered a great
square, curious building, standing like a sen
tinel in the centre. I exclaimed, ‘‘Oh! that
must be the haunted house.”
“Yes, it is,” said sister Hardin, “aud I
can give you its history, which I am sure you
are anxious to hear.”
I confessed my curiosity and begged for
the history. She told it as we stood peering
through the fence at the building.
“An Englishman by the name of Mark
West moved to this region about thiriy years
ago, and built that house. He owned all the
land about here, aud the creek aud place
both were named after him.”
“Why did he build such a dreadful looking
house, if he was so rich?” I asked.
“Indeed that was a fine one for those rough
days. It is what they call an adobe house.”
I laughed, for I now understood what peo
ple meant by talking so much about “do-be”
SinfberK Hmslww Aclmalf.
mud, and “do-be” land. They leave off the
a entirely. I suppose it is too much trouble
to say adobe.
This mud is like clay in some respects, and
the Spaniards built with it, by mixing it with
straw. This haunted house was built in this
fashion to the height of twelve feet, and over
this was a frame story, with a piazza all around.
T rnroof wa3 almost flat, the bouse was square,
wi h no chimneys, and with little square win*-
dows, with little panes of glass. Altogether
it had a curious look. She went on with her
history.
“Mark We3t had a large family, and I sup
pose they had merry times in those days,
when he was the ‘big’ man of the country.
There was a drawback, however, to their en
joyment, for the rich man was subject to what
were called ‘mad fits.’ He was once in one
of these, when it was so unpleasant to be
near him, that all the family left home, until
he should recover. One of the sons lingered
near to see that nothing went wrong, and
upon returning after a short absence, found
the rich man still seated before the dining
table where they had left him, stone dead.’’
What an entrance into the presence of
God 1
“From that day, it is said, his ghost in
habits the house. 'The family remained in
it for several years, hut were harassed with
fearful sounds all night long. When visitors
slept there, and were aroused by the nightly
din, they were told by the family, as if it were
a small matter ofcourse, ‘lt is father’s spirit.’
They were at last forced to vacate the house,
and from year to year it passed through dif
ferent hands, no one ever occupying it more
than three nights without leaving it haggard,
and worn, and sleepless.”
Here was the “twice told tale” of the
“haunted house,” but never before had “the
house” stood right before me. I was seized
with a desire to explore it.
“Do let us go over it,” I cried.
The party agreed so readily to the propo
sal, that the ciimbing a high picket fence,
was but a slight drawback to our proceeding
directly to the spot. The house was com
pletely surrounded by an orchard, and we
passed through avenues literally bestrewn
uuderfiot with fruit. Apples lay on the
ground by the bushel, and plums of all va
rieties, some as large as the apples. The
prune trees were nearest to the building, and
there was something like rank luxuriance in
the dark purple fruit which lay ungathered
and rotting in the summer suushine. The
laste of them sickened me, but it must have
been in my imagination, for Joetta and little
.Johnnie Maddux did not seem to relish them
any the less for growing upon “uncanny”
ground. The old dusty stairway which led
to the upper part of the house was on the
outside, and it resounded with the unusual
sound of our bold footsteps. The doors gave
way as we pushed, and we marched about
among the mysterious, deserted rooms. If
gloom could inhabit a house bodily, it cer
tainly took form there, in those low-walled,
paper-stained apartments. One of them had
evidently been a ball room, by its width and
and length. I stood for a moment lost in
dreaming of those, whose feet once trod
carelessly upon those now dismal boards.
Where were they ?
My ! —what a thundering Bhock startled
me! I sprang towards the door, thinking
the old roof was giving way. As the whole
parly rushed out, a merry peal of laughter
greeted us. There stood sister Hardiu near
ly exhausted, from having hurled a great
beam of wood against the sides of the house.
Nothing daunted in my search for mysteries.
1 pushed open the creaking doors of the
basement, or “adobe” story. We found
numerous rat-holes, and some strange look
ing nests all along the rafters, which must
have been made by some night birds. Who
would desire a better ghost? Though I donl
believe a word about “haunted houses,” I
am sure no inducement could lead me to oc
cupy that dwelling, even for a night. We
returned to the parlor, where a laughing re
cital of our adventures w is given to our se
retie old lady friend. The current of our
thoughts was changed by an invitation from
sister Maddux to visit her orchard. One of
ihe features of California hospitality is to in
vite your guest into the orchard, and provide
him or her with a convenient step ladder.
We followed our guide with alacrity, and
soon found ourselves in a perfect wilderness
of fruit trees.
Now language fails me—Bow shall I con
vince those who have only seen the “usual”
orchard of a prosperous farmer, that I tell a
true tale, when I tell them of trees spreading
over several acres of ground, and standing
only a few (eet apart, and with fruit so thick
upon the boughs that they were bent very
often clear down to the earth. There were
peaches of every color and shape, and a carpet
of fallen peaches was underfoot. There were
plums, nectarines, alinonds, pears, apples,
prunes, etc. I find it difficult to recall what
I saw iu July in the way of fruit, when con
stantly since, my eyes have been feasted upon
every imaginable variety. Fruit 1 Why our
store rooms have been laden with offerings
of it through all the season. The children
eat it all day long, and often on into the
night, and they never were in better health.
Fruit! Why the quantity of it is fabulous!
and it is so beautiful. The grapes come iu
clusters so large, that they are heavy for the
children to lift, and we get them in almost
every size, shape, and color. The fruit dishes
we set upon our tables, made up of different
aud luscious varieties, are marvellously beau
tiful, and we have nothing to pay for the
tempting dishes. We have only to send a
market basket by one of the boys to a friend’s
house, and he brings it filled, with the mes
sage on his lips, “When this is gone send tor
more.”
At the close of a day, not long since, I
watched Mr. Branch, with smiling interest,
ae he enjoyed some pears from a full basket
just sent us. As he was eating with a relish
the third or fourth, I heard him exclaim,
“Who would not live in California ?”
All days, however pleasant, pass away;
and the lengthening shadows in the orchard
of sister Maddux warned us that it was time
we were turning our faces homeward. Our
adieus were spoken, and we were soon whirl
ed along the road which skirted the harveft
fields. Again the rich panorama passed be
fore my eyes ; again I looked with interest
upon the machines by which the grain is cut.
I saw one ol ponderous size, propelled by ten
ten or twelve horses, that pushed it ahead of
them. This is called a header , and cuts off
the wheat which is in bunches at the top of
the stalk, and leaves the straw standing, to
be reaped at another time. As Joetta and I
said, “It reminded us of the pictures in the
spelling book” —the old blue back spelling
book, which has gone into disuse. It lies
upon our bookshelves, but we will never for
get its pictures, will we 1
The air came fresh and bracing from the
Pacific, and the scarf, which in the morning
had only beeu brought into use as a head
dress, was found very comfortable, when
PUBLISHED BY J. W. BURKE & COMPANY, Ftp THE METHODIST EPISCOPAL CHURCH, SOUTH.
wrapped lightly around my neck. There
before us we saw again the fascinating out
line of hills. Instead of the morning sun
shine glimmer, the purpling mists now robed
them. How they change their garments—
those changeable hills 1 Above them all,
from this view, arose St. Helena, and about
her grey peaks, lingered the last rays of the
setting sun. I never look at that mountain
now, but I trace upon the sky the majestic
form of a sleeping saint, with “far flowing
hair,” and with arms folded above her bosom.
It is said that to this resemblance the moun
tain owes its name. What a magical charm
there is in association I lam glad I have
heard the history of St. Helena’s name.
The spires of Santa Rosa were soon in
view, and our trip was over. Such was our
California day. As we bade sister Hardin
good-bye at her door, she exclaimed, with
her smile of sunshine, “I have enjoyed this
day hugely /” And so had we all. I have
tried to give to these simple words of descrip
tion, the glow which filled my grateful heart
at that day’s close. I count all happy days
as gifis from the Bountiful. It is a slight
thing to treasure them ?
‘t Happy days
Roll onward leading up the golden year.”
Santa Rosa, Cal., Oct. 4. C. B.
COMMON SCHOOLS REPLY TO JUS
TICE.
Mr. Editor: When I sent you my little
plea for Common Schools, I had no thought
of troubling you, or the readers of the Ad
vocate, with anything more upon the sub
ject. But, inasmuch as Justice (a misno
mer, I think, in view of the position he
takes) sees fit to reply, and I think treats my
position unfairly, I ask space for another
short article, in which I hope to set him
right, unless he is wilfully blind. I staled
distinctly in that communication that, I
would not, and I did not, discuss the right
of the State, to foster either Colleges or
Common Schools; but only insisted that, if
it be her right and duty to do the one, it is
equally her right and duty, in justice to all
her people, to do the other. This was the
burden of my letter, and the only point made
and insisted upon, except such as naturally
grew out of this main idea. The right and
duty of the State to educate her people, has
been admitted and acted upon by the great
est minds of the age, both statesmen and
jurists, and the Common School system is a
part of their work. And although Justice
says, “ it seems to be wanting in sound ar
guments for its support,” he certainly brings
no killing ones against it. And he need not
have brought any to answer me ; for I made
no question of it at all. I prefer to leave
that question to statesmen and jurists. The
principal has been recognized and acted
upon by them in almost every enlightened
government in the world. They can defend
he principle when a defense becomes neces
sary. But I presume Justice will scarcely
provoke a discussion, if he attacks that prin
ciple with no belter arguments than can be
found (on that point) in his answer to my
plea for Common Schools. Therein he ap
points the limits of legitimate legislation—
which puts it out of the power of govern
ments to touch the subject of education at
all—but presently admits her right to foster
her University. He is not a dangerous ad
versary who puts up an argument, and then
knocks it down himself. His opponent may
be amused, but certainly not scared. But
let us examine his objections to Common
Schools, and see if there is any reason or
sound argument in them.
After freely conceding the importance of
primary education ; he is unwilling to turn
that great interest over to the State, because
it—the Common School system —gives to the
State the performance of those things which,
in his opinion, should be exercised only by
he parent. If there is any reason here, I
acknowledge I cannot see it. The perform
anee of what things does it give to the State
that should be exercised only by the parent
—and in what does the Common School
differ from any other? Why simply and
only in the payment of the tuition by the
State. It does not relieve the parent of one
single duty, nor assume one of his preroga
tives. The parent has choice of schools. If
he does not like one, he can send to any
other within reach. Or if he chooses, and
is so blind to the interest of his children as
not to send at all, he can so elect; for there
is no compulsion in the matter. The child
goes to a teacher, paid in part by the State,
whose duties are the very same in every par
ticular, and whose authority over the child
is no more than if he were paid by the pa
rent. And in either case, the parent is not
relieved of his responsibility to train up his
child in the way he should go, nor is he in
my way hindered in so doing. Now I think
[ have answered this objection fairly, and
have shown that there is no reason in it. It
is a noticeable fact that Justice does not un
dertake to prove any position he assumes ;
aud when he says that the Common School
system gives to the State the performance of
those things which, in his judgment, should
be exercised only by the parent, he fails to
mention one of them—and I deny that there
is one. Farther on, in two or three places,
Justice harps upon this same string, but, as
before, gives no facts nor arguments to sus
tain his position ; and winds up by saying,
“The State should not step between parent
and child in that matter.” I think I have
answered these objections altogether; for
there is but one idea in them all. But, to
step between parent and child is no light
matter; and if Justice will convince me that
this is effected by the operation of the Com
mon School system, I will no longer advo
cate it; but I cannot take his word for it.
He m ist show in what, and how it is so.
Commenting upon my position—that the
Common School should share the fostering
care of the State, in common with the
highest institutions of learning; wherein I
depicted the condition of certain few parents
who are unable to spare their sons from la
bor, for attendance at school (tuition free)
long enough to obtain a sufficient knowledge
of English grammar and arithmetic for the
common purposes of life Justice says:
“Now, if the argument is good, for that
identical reason the State ought to provide
other labor for the father, so that his sons
may avail themselves of the blessings of the
school room.” The deduction is unfair and
illogical. No such inference can be drawn
from it. Because it may be the right and
duty of the State to go to a certain extent
in any matter of legislation, is no reason why
she should go too far, or beyond the limits
of her right and duty. Nor is it any reason
why she should stop short of it. Neither is
it any argument against Common schools
that there are a few who may not be able to
avail themselves of the full benefits confer
red by them. Justice might as well argue,
that there should be no colleges because ev
ery poor boy can’t graduate.
I have refuse 1 to argue the right of the
State to educate her people—not for lack of
conviction on that subject, but because the
MACON, GEORGIA, TUESDAY, OCTOBER 24, 1876.
State, in common with almost every enlight
ened goverment in the world, is fully, and 1
think, properly committed to the policy. If
Justice wishes to discuss that policy, he can
do so without an opponent —or find someone
else to answer him. If he sees fit to reply
to me, I hope he now understands my posi
tion and will stick to the text. Jdstitia.
Oglethorpe County. Oct. 9, 1876.
A HINT TO YOUNG SPEAKERS.
A Chicago Editor, with seven thousand
other men, enterviewed Mr. Moody, at eight
o’clock a. m., October 1. He was “ im
pressed with three points that in some mea
sure account for Moody’s success” :
“In the first place, he is eminently a
man without nonsense. He arose modestly,
not even looking around the great con
course, and in the first sentence, without
introduction of any sort, plunged straight
into the heart of his subject. He handled
it in a lawyerly, business way, like a man
thoroughly intent on one thing, and clos-d
abruptly when he had finished his course of
thought. He had evidently thought very
little of his surroundings, but was very intent
upon his Master’s business.
“ Again : his earnestness, always great,
seems to have intensified to a perfect passiou
for souls. He pays little attention to the
structure or order of sentences. Like Paul,
he sometimes is carried over to the sec
ond sentence before he has concluded the
first. And while there is nothing like a
rhetorical climax, there is ever and again a
climax of feeling, when he fairly hurls from
him some short sentence with terrific force.
Aud then, above and crowning all, the Lord
has kept His servant in the grace of humili
ty. He hides behind the Cross. He is seek
ing souls.”
We call attention to the first point men
tioned above. While it is the least impor
tant of the three, it is at the same time very
important. “He is without nonsense.”—
This may mean, among other things, that he
is simple ; unprofessional in air, manner,
and bearing. He handled his subject in a
lawyerly, business way. Suppose a lawyer,
of whom it could be properly said that he
addressed the jury in a ministerial, or preath
er-like style. Would he probably be a sue
cessful lawyer ? Or, suppose a business
man, talking to his associates in a clerical
manner, would he be noted for his power over
them 1 Many young ministers err greatly at,
this point. They put ou a manner which is
artificial and unreal. I was in a railroad car
once when a gentleman behind me tried to
open the door. He did not open it readily,
and a very short conversation took place be
tween him and a fellow-passenger. Without
seeing either, it occurred to me at, once,
“ These must be preachers.” Ou inquiry I
found that one was a Baptist minister, and
the other, I was compelled, somewhat reluc •
tantly, to acknowledge as a brother, for he,
as a preacher, served the people called Meh
odist*. At our District Conferences we oc
casionally hear a young brother, who an
swers the most common-place q testion in
orthodox, ministerial tone. Ask him, “On
your circuit do you use a buggy, or do yo> ■
ride on horseback?” and he will give you
the important information in a tone which
would be rather too stiff and solemn if he
were pronouncing the Apostolic Benedic
tion. Dear young brethren, quit all this, at
once and forever. Be well-bred gentlemen,
seriously intent on a great business. Any
man who combines in an unusual degree
the three points given above, will be impres
sive and successful in an unusual degree.
And the first is an admirable foundation for
the other two.
Two incidents, taken from Whately’s Life,
may be suggestive. Being once compelled,
by the unwise solicitations of a clerical
friend, to give his opinion as to that friend’s
performance of the services, he told him,
•‘ Well, then, if you really wish to know what
I think of your reading, I should say there
are only two parts of the service you read
well; aud those, you read unexceptionably.”
“ And what are those ?" asked the clergy
man.
“They are: ‘Here endeth the first lea
son,’ and ‘ Here endeth the second lesson.’ ”
“ What do you mean, Whately ?”
“ I mean that these parts you read in your
own natural voice and manner, which are
very good, bat the rest is all artificial and
assumed.”
Another clerical friend, who had been ac
customed to use this artificial tone, com
plained to him that he was suffering so much
from weakness of the throat, he leared he
must resign his post. Dr. Whately told him
that if he would change his style, and use
his natural voice, he would find it less fa
tiguing.
“Oh!” said his friend, “that is all very
well for you, who have a powerful voice ; but
mine is so feeble that it would be impossible
to make myself heard in a church if I did
not speak in an artificial voice.”
“I believe you are mistaken; you will
find a weak voice would be better heard, and
at the expense of less fatigue, if the tone is
a natural one.”
The other appeared unconvinced, but,
meeting Whately some time after, he con
fessed to him that experience had proved
the correctness of the advice.
You see, young friends, that yonr own
throats will be benefitted by adopting a natu
ral tone. And, be assured, your hearers will
rejoice, and the great interest which, I doubt
not, lies heavy on your hearts, will be pro
moted. Jay.
Selections.
THE RECOGNITION.
Grace Greenwood tells, in The Interior, a
story of one Malcolm Anderson, who at the
age of sixteen left his widowed mother in
the Highlands of Scotland, to seek his for
tune as a sailor. After several voyages, the
proceeds of which were largely bestowed on
his mother, he went to India, and by dili
gence and shrewdness became wealthy. As
his fortunes improved he cared for his moth
er and sent her money enough to secure and
repair her cottage home, and annually re
mitted enough to meet her expenses and pay
the wages of a faithful servant or compan
ion who abode with her.
Entangled in business cares, Mr. Ander
son never found time and freedom for the
long voyage and visit home; till at last, fail
ing health, and the necessity of educating his
children, compelled him to abruptly wind up
his affairs and return to Scotland. He was
then a man somewhat over forty, but looking
far older than his years, showing all the usu
al ill effects of the trying climate of India.
His complexion was a sallow brown ; he
was gray and somewhat bald, with here and
and there a dash of white to his dark aburn
beard ; he was thin and a little bent, but his
youthful smile remained full of quiet drollery,
and his eye had not lost all its old gleeful
sparkle, by poring over ledgers and count
ing rupees.
He had married a country-woman, the
daughter of a Scotch surgeon ; and had two
children, a son and a daughter. He did
not write to his good mother that he was
coming home, as he wished to surprise her,
and test her memory of her sailor boy. The
was made with safety.
One summer afternoon Mr. Malcolm And
erson arrived with his family in his native
1 town. Putting up at the little ion he pro
‘ ceeded to dress himself in a suit of sailor
, clothes, and then walked out alone. By a
by-path he well knew, and then through a
shady lane, dear to his young, hazel-nutting
days, all strangely unchanged, he approach
ed his mother’s eattage. He stopped for a
few moments on the lawn outside, to curb
, down the heart that was hounding to meet
:tkat mother, and to clear his eyes of a sud
fden mist of happy tears. Through the open
window he caught a glimpse of her, sitting
at her spinning-wheel, as in the old
time. But alas, how changed 1 Bowed was
the dear form once erect, and silvered the
locks once so brown, and dimmed the eyes
fonce so full of tender brightness, like dew
(stained violets. But the voice, with which
; she was crooning softly to herself, was still
sweet, and there was on her cheek the same
-lovely peach bloom of twenty years ago.
1 At length he knocked, and the dear old,
'well-remembered voice called to him in the
ksimple, old-fashioned way : “Coom ben 1”
► come in.) The widow rose at sight of the
(st-anger. and courteously offered him a
fehair. Thanking her in an assumed voice,
{somewhat gruff, he sank down as though
i wearied, saying that he was a wayfarer,
(.strange to the country, and asking the way
p.o the next, town. The twilight favored him
in his little ruse; he saw that she did not
(recognize him, even as one she had ever
seen. But after giving him the information
jie desired, she asked him if he was a Scotch
man by birth.
“Yps, madam,” he replied ; “but I have
JP.-r-n away in foreign parts many years. I
doubt if my own mother would know me
now, though she was very fond of me before
4 went to sea.”
“Ah, mon 1 it’s little ye ken about mith
srs, gin ye think sae. I can tell ye there is
na mortal memory like theirs,” the widow
somewhat warmly replied; then added :
“And where hae ye been tor sae langa time,
that ye hae lost a’ the Scotch fra your
Speech ?”
“In India—in Calcutta, madam.”
“Ah, then, it’s likely ye ken something o’
►lay son, Mr. Malcolm Anderson.”
“Anderson?” repeated the visitor, as
(hough striving to remember. “There be
many of that name in Calcutta; hut is your
ton a rich merchant, and a man about my
age and size, with something such a figure
head?”
“My son is a rich merchant,” replied the
widow proudly, “but he is younger than you
by many a long year, and, begging yonr par
don, sir, far bonnier. He is tall and straight,
* -i’ haudsand feet like a lassie’s; he had
wn, curling hair, sae thick and glossy !
Ify'cheeks like the rose, and a brow like a
it wan, and big blue een, wi’ a glint in them
like the light of the evening star! Na, na,
(re are no like my Malcolm, though ye are a
!;uid enough body, I dinna doubt, aud a de
cent woman’s son.”
i Here the masquerading merchant consid
erably taken down, made a movement as
though to leave, but the hospitable dame
stayed him, saying: “Ein ye hae traveled
h’ the way fra India, ye mun be tired and
jmngry. Bide a bit, and eat and drink wi’
ns. Margery 1 come down, and let us set on
the supper.”
, The two women soon provided quite a
tempting repast, and they all three sat down
to it—Mrs. Anderson reverently asking a
blessing. But the merchant could not eat.
He was only hungry for his mother’s kisses
-r-only thirsty for her joyful recognition; yet
he could not bring himself to say to her: “I
am your son.” He asked himself, half
grieved, half amused : “Where are the un
erring, natural instincts I have read about
vr, poetry and novels?”
hostess, seeing he did noteat,, kindly
asked him if he could suggest anything he
tpould he likely to relish. “I thank you,
madam,” he answered ; “it does seem to me
that I should like some oat meal porridge,
such as my mother used to make, if so be yon
have any.”
t “Porridge 1” repeated the widow. “Ah.
ye mean parritch. Yes, we hae a little, left
frae our dinner. Gie it to him, Margery.
But. mon, it iseauld.”
“Never, mind; I know I shall like it,”
rejoined, taking the bowl, and beginning
to stir the porridge with his spoon. As he
c-id so, Mrs. Anderson gave a slight start,
and bant eagerly toward him. Then she
sank back in her chair with a sigh, saying,
in answer to his questioning look.
“Ye minded me o’ my Malcolm, then —
just in that way he used to sir his parritch—
gieing it a whirl and a flirt. Ah 1 gin ye were
itiy Malcolm, my poor la idie 1”
“Weel then, gin I were your Malcolm,”
said the merchant, speaking for the first time
in the Scotch dialect, and in his own voice;
‘for gin your braw young Malcolm were as
iffown, and bald, and gray, and bent and
cld, as I am, could you welcome him to your
arms, and love him as in the dear old lang
syne? Could you, inither?”
All through this touching little speech the
widow’s eyes had been glistening, and her
breath coming fast; but at that word “mith
er” she sprang up with a glad cry, and tot
tering to her son, fell almost fainting on his
breast.. He kissed her again ana again—
ktrssed her brow, and her lips, and her hands
while the big tears slid down his bronzed
cheeks, while she clung about his neck, and
call- and him by all the dear, old pet names,
and tried to see in him all the dear old,
young looks. By and by they came back
or the ghosts of them came back. The form
in her embrace grew comelier ; love and joy
gave to it a second youth, stately and gra.
cious ; the first she then and there buried
deep in her heart —a sweet, beautiful, pecu
liar memory. It was a moment of solemn
renunciation, in which she gave up the fond,
maternal illusion she had long
Tl!en looking up steadily into the face of tbe
mft-idle aged man, who had taken its place,
sit©asked: “Where hae ye left the wife
aifd bairns?”
“At the inn, mother. Have you room for
ug-all at the cottage ?”
“Indred, I have; twa good spare rooms,
wi’ large closets, weel stocked wi’ linin I
hae been spinning or weaving a’ these lang
years for ye baith, and the weans.”
“Well, mother dear, now you must rest,”
rejoined the merchant tenderly.
*s.‘Na, na, I dinna care to rest till ye lay
m;. down to tak" my lang rest. There’ll be
time enough between that day and the res
urrection to fauld my hands in idleness. Now
’(would be unco irksome. But go, my son,
and bring me the wife—l hope I shall like
her ; and the bairns—l hope they will like
me.”
I have only to say, that both the good wo
man’s hopes were realized. Avery happy
family knelt down to prayer that night, and
many nights after, in the widow’s cottage,
whose climbing roses and woodbine were but
outward signs and types of the sweetness
and blessedness of the love and peace within.
THE SLEEP.
“ lie giveth His beloved sleep " Psalm cxxvii; 2
Every Chri-titu should cut out and preserve
the following beauti ul pi-ce of po< try. Many,
especi tllv in these times of trouble and bereave
ment, 11l tind comtjrt in resdiig them. They
were wiitten bv the Christian poetess, Mrs.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning—of whom Ilollauo
has beauti’ully said- “She looked up to Heaven
with a Chrisli tn adoration to which even her
marvellous gift of iaugtiage could give no titling
expression. She swept all the chords of human
pas ion wish lingeis that shook with the stress
of their own iuspirali >n; aud yet her heart was
the dwelling place of an all controlling, all
subordinating Christian purpose. She son ed
ami sang as om.in nev r soared and sang be
fore; soared aud sang, English skylark though
she was. into the golden sunlight of Italian
natimality, until the attraction of earth was
passed aud heaven drew her home ”
Of all the thoughts of God that are
Borne iaward uut > souls afar,
Along the Psalmist’s rou.-ie deep,
Now tell uie if there any is.
For gift, or gra.-e surpas, i-ig this—
“He giveth His beloved sleep!”
What, would we give to our beloved ?
The hero’s heart to he unmoved,—
The poet’s star-tuned liarp to s weep,—
The patriot’s voice, to teach and rouse,—
The monarch’s crown to li :ht the brow ?
“He giveth His beloved sleep !”
What do we give to our beloved ?
A little fai h, all uadi proved,—
A IP tie dust to over weep
And hi ter memori s to make
The whole ea-tli blasted for our sake—
“He giveth His beloved sleep !”
Sl-cp soft, beloved ! we sometimes say,
But, have no time to charm away
8-ad dr< ams that over evelids creep;
But never doleful dream again
Shall brok the h ippy slumber, when
“He giveth His beloved sleep!”
O, earth, so full of drea-y noiies!
O, men, wiih wai'ing in your voices 1
O, delv and gold, the waiter’s heap!
O stri’e ! <). curse that o’er it, fall;
God makes a silence through you all,
And “giveth His beloved sleep !”
His dew drops mutely on the hill,
His cloud above it sai'eth still.
Though on Its slope men sow and reap,
More softly ’him the dew is shed,
Or c'ond is 11 >a*ed over head,
1 He giveth Hi a beloved sleep !’’
Y--a. men may wonder while they scan
A living, thinking, feeling man,
t’onlirmed in such a rest to keep;
But angeL say—and through the Word
I think their happy mil- U heard -
“He give'll His beloved sleep 1”
For me, my heart that. erst, did go
Most like a tired child at a -how.
That sees through tears the jugglers leap
Would now its wearied vision close.
Won and cbi'd- ike on llis love repose,
“Who giveth Hi - beloved sleep!’’
And fri nds, dear friends when it shall he
That this low breath is gon-- from me,
And round my hier ye come to weep.
Let one. most lovi g of you all.
Bay “Not, a tear must o’er her fall—
‘He giveth llis beloved si ep !’ ”
THE AGED FRIEND.
The aged are sometimes lonely because
they miss the friends who, one by one. have
left them and gone home They lavment
that they have survived their contempora
ries, and that they are no long£ needed in
this busy, hustling world. Ah! friends, if
if you ever said this, say it no more. The
busy, bustling world has great need of you.
It is good for it that there are in it those
whom it must care for tenderly, who give it
pause from its conflicts, who flavor its cruel
ty with the rare essence of their gathered
wisdem Lonely you may he sometimes,
but your friendship is of value to your jun
iors, and no real man or woman, no one who
has lived above the mere baubles and follies
of the passing day, ever grows too old to
make and to keep friends. To many a
world-wearied business man, to many a
house mother tired and worried, to many a
yonng girl, or an ambitious lad, the beauty,
the sincerity, the patience, and the gentle
counsels of an aged friend are precious, and
held in high esteem.
To the old belong the richest pleasures of
memory. As they lie awake at night, or sit
in the day-time in the easy chair, the patio
rama of the past unrolls itself to their view,
and they hear sweet voices which to others
are silent. The hymns and texts of child
hood repeat themselves in silvery melody,
and thrill them with joy. We need not pity
them. They are fed with angels’ food.
AFTER MANV BAYS.
An old woman of eighty wished to become
a Christian. But there was a difficulty in the
way. So she asked several friends to come
with the minister and talk with her. She ad
mitted the truth of all they said, but some
thing held her back.
Said the minister:
“Why not give yourself now, within ten
minutes.”
“0 she could not.”
“Why not?”
“She wanted lime,” she said ; “it was too
sudden; ten minutes? 0, no! she must
have time to think about it.”
‘■You are old ” said the minister; “how
long have you been thinking about it al
ready ?”
She paused a minute and then said slowly,
“Fifty years.”
“Fifty years,” cried the minister: “and
yet you want more time! Isn’t fifty years
enough ?”
That was anew way of looking at it. Fif
ty years indeed.”
“What shall I do?” the eagerly asked.
“Do nothing,” was the answer; “but leave
all with God. Let us pray to H.m to lift the
burden.”
So they prayed. And suddenly, when she
no longer pleaded for time, light came through
the darkness, the burden rolled away, and
like a little child, the old woman entered the
kingdom.— Congregationalist.
PRAY ON.
It is easy to know the knock of a beggar
at one's door. Low, timid, hesitating ; it
seems to say—“l have no claim on the kind
ness of this house ; I may be told I come
too often ; I may be treated as a troublesome
and unworthy mendicant; the door may be
flung in my face by some surly servant ”
How diflf-rent on his return from school,
the loud knocking, the bounding step, the
joyous rush ol the child to his father’s pres
ence, and as he climbs on his knee, and
flings his arms around his neck, the bold
face and ready tongue with which heremiuds
his father of some promised favor. Now,
why are God’s people bold ? To a father in
God, to an elder brother in Christ, faith con
ducts our steps in prayer; therefore, in an
hour of need, faith, bold of spirit, raises her
suppliant hands and cries to God, “0 that
thou wouldst rend the heavens and come
down.” — Dr. Guthrie.
God’s Ways Best.— “ I could write down
twenty cases,” says a pious man, “ when I
wished God had done otherwise than he did,
but which I now see, had I my own will,
would have led to extensive mischief. The
life of a Christian is a life of paradoxes. He
must lay hold on God, he must follow hard
after Him, he must determine not to let
Him go. And yet you must learn to let God
alone. Quietness before God is one of the
most difficult of all Christian graces; to sit
where He pleases, to be what He would
have us be, and this as long as He pleases.”
THE POWER OF HABIT.
Habit is the power and ability of doing any
thing, acquired by frequent repetition of the
same action. It is different from custom—
custom respects the action —habit, the actor.
Bv custom, we mean a frequent recurrence
of the same act; and by habit, the effect that
custom has on the mind or body.
“As the snow gathers together, so are our
habits formed. No single flake that is added
to the pile produces a sensible change. No
single action creates, however it may exhibit,
a man's character; but as the tempest hurls
the avalanches down the mountain, and over,
whelms the inhabitant, and his habitation, so
passion, ac’ingnpon the elements of mischief
which pernicious habits have brought to
gether, may overthrow the edifice of truth
and virtue.”
Those habits which seem too weak to he
felt, become too strong to be broken; they
entwine themselves around the soul, and the
coil proves fatal.
Once commence the downward course, and
it, is uncertain if you will ever return: “There
is a way that seemeth right unto a man, hut
the end thereof is death.” The lives of many
in history illustrate the “downward steps
from innocence to guilt.” “A painter once
wanted a picture of innocence, and painted
a child at prayer; the little suppliaut was
kneeling beside his mother, the palms of his
uplift hands were reverently pressed together,
his rosy cheek spoke of health, and his mild
blue eyes were upturned with the expression
of devotion and peace. The portrait of young
Rupert was much prized by the painter, and
was hung up on his study wall, and called
‘lnnocence.' Years passed away, and the
painter became an old man: still the picture
hung there; he had often thought of painting
a contrast —the picture of guilt—but he had
not found the opportuni y. At, last he effect
ed his purpose by paying a visit to a neigh
boring jail. On the damp floor of his cell lay
a wreiched culprit, named Randall, heavily
ironed; wasted was his body, and hollow his
eye—vice was visible in bis face. The painter
succeeded in copying his features admirably,
and the portraits of young Rupert and old
Randall were hung up side by side, as ‘lnno
cence’ and ‘Guilt.’ But who were young
Rupert and old Randall? Alas! the two
were one. Old Randall was young Rupert
led astray by his companions, and ending his
life in this damp dungeon of the jail.”
The common phrase, “I see no harm in
it,” so often used in society, if allowed to in
fluence our actions and conduct, may prove
pernicious, or even dangerous. If we would
walk safely, we must check every approach
to evil, and pray, “Hold thou me up, and I
shall be safe.”
Beware of trifling with si iful habits. Satan
lays his fatal snares for the unwary ; the bait
i adjusted, aud the soul is taken captive by
like devil; ouch'nndeed, is the corruption oil
our nature, that those who are in the habit
of doing wrong will find it as imposible to
do right as for the Ethiopian to change his
skin, or the leopard his spots. You may cut
a thorn off a briar, hut it is a b'iar still; you
may plume a raven in gaudy feathers, but it
is a raveu still. The old nature must he
changed, and God’s grace alone can do it,
for sin is the blackness and deformity of the
soul. Sin has polluted the springs of our
being, and made the heart corrupt. Like
the ants’ nest, on which while a stone covers
it, none of them appear; but take off the
stone, and then stir them up with a piece of
straw, what a lively swarm there will be 1
So iet temptations come, and we at once find
how strong our corruptions are, and our
need of divine aid to withstand both the
tempter, and discover the evil inclinations of
our nature.
Seek, then, God’s help to acquire good
habits.
Seek divine strength to resist evil, and the
will to do right.
Seek the cleansing blood of Jesus to wash
away the pollutions of your nature.
Hide God’s word in your heart, that you
may not sin against Him. It will be a bul
wark to shield you, and a guide to direct
you.
Be assured of this : that, man’s greatest
enemy is himself. Let your prayer be, “0
Lord, show me myself, my weakness, my in
sufficiency ; let no rival reign in my heart;
subdue all within me, Thou King of hearts;
and to Thy name shall be all the glory.”
TRUE LOVE.
A London paper says: “A clergyman was
sent to visit a young girl who was seriously
ill. She was the only child of her widowed
mother. The illness proved fatal, and the
once happy wife and mother was left in
poverty and desolation. A few days after
the child’s funeral, the widow called and
asked to see the clergyman. After some lit
tle hesitation, she put into bis hand a packet
containing money, whiclishe begged he would
give to some society, which was seuding the
Gospel to the heathen world. He opeued the
pa; eel, and to his amazement counted out.
S2O. He at once remonstrated with the
widow, told her that,, gaining her precarious
living as a laundress, she surely ought not to
give so large a sum. With great modesty
she urged him to take it, and then said: ‘How
I came to have this large sum is just this.
When my child was born, I thought she’ll
live to get married some of these days, and I
thought I would begin to put by a little sum
to be a store for her then, and I began that
day with sixpence. You know wha* happen
ed last week. Well, I thought to myselt, the
heavenly Bridpgroom has come, and He has
called her home to be His bride; and I
thought, as He had taken the bride, it is only
right He should have the dowry.’ ”
THE PULPIT TONE.
To a thoughtful observer it is a matter of
surprise and pain that so many young
preachers, in the outset, fall into bad habits
of delivery, in spite of the many excellent
things said on this subject by writers on
rhetoric, which our Course of Study requires
them to read. Why read, unless we profit
by what we read, and put it in practice ? I
refer now to nothing but the tone of voice in
which a great many men preach. They are
not lacking in culture ; they are intelligent
and inieresting in conversation, and would
be equally engaging and effective as preach
ers, if they could shake off the miserable
shackles of pulpit, airs and tones. When
they read it is in one key, forgetting that the
highest excellence in readiug is to give the
voice the natural play of animated conver
sation. When they begin the sermon, in
stead of addressing the audience in a simple,
unaffected way, they assume an unnatural
air, and begin in an artificial and declama
tory tone. This is a great mistake. — Se
lected,
F. M. KENNEDY, D. D., Editor
J. W. BURKE, Assistant Edit or
A. G. HAYGOOI), D. D., Editorial Correspondent
WHOLE NUMBER 201S
AVAR vs. THE GOSPEL.
Not one word or deed of the meek and
lowly Jesus, even remotely, sanctioned war.
While the Gospel proclaims “peace on
earth, and good will toward men,” the war
spirit introduces hatred and malice toward
them. While the one would set apart one
day in seven for rest and the worship of
God, the other renders such rest and wor
ship utterly impossible, by making God’s
day one of amusement and hilarity, the fa
vorite day for the commencement of battles.
While one encourages meditation, the cher
ishing of emotions of sympathy, love, com
passion, and humanity, the other fearfully
arouses the baser and more ferocious pas
sions of our fallen nature. The one pro
nounces blessings on the peacemaker and on
the merciful; but the other offers glory, the
applause of men, emolument of social posi
tion, to the war-maker. The Gospel incul
cates a forgiving spirit, and bids its follow
ers, if smitten on one cheek, “ to turn the
other also. ” War knows no forgiveness,
but desolates the whole nation for the of
fenses of a few. The Gospel demands that
we return good for evil ; the war code knows
no such spirit, but deals out evil for evil, in
sult for insult, blow for blow, and blood for
blood. The Gospel encourages industry
and economy, hut war diverts from the usual
pursuits of industry, fearfully destroying
bone and muscle, and just to that extent re
ducing the productiveness of the nation.
While the one would improve the condition
of man, socially and morally, the other
wages war on every interest of humanity.
Indeed, the cost of war and intemperance ex
ceeds all other expenditures, burdening the
honest laborer with exorbitant taxation to
support only what curses our humanity. The
one blesses and elevates man, the other
curses and degrades him. The one breathes
the spirit.of mercy, love, and kindness to all;
the other rankles with malice, hatred, re
venge, and cruelty. The one is of God, and
in all respects indicates its high origin ; the
other is of the enemy of all righteousness,
and as truly shows its low origin.— Facts for
the People.
THE USE OF ENEMIES.
When a man complains of his enemies, it
not only shows that his heart is filled with
bitterness, and that he would not hesitate to
retaliate if opportunity should offer, but also
that he lacks wisdom as well as charity, in
not considering how useful an enemy could
be to him. A wise and faithful friend once
spoke to his acquaintance upon this subject
as follows:
“ You are ever complaining of the wrong
and annoyance you suffer from your enemy,
but you forget that more than half your
trouble and fear comes from your own heart.
Guard more against yourself and you w;ll
have less reason to fear other enemies ; for
open enemies are far less dangerous than
secret ones. The man is an enemy to him
self who indulges in hatred to his fellowman,
and meditates revenge against those of whose
hostility he complains ; for by cherishing
such a temper of mind he makes himself an
enemy of the God who. coqdemps all impla
cability and malevolence of disposition.
Now consider the matter calmly aud you
will soon see how much good you may de
rive from an enemy, and thank God that so
much good can come of evil.”
MISCELLANEA.
The missionaries and native evangelists in
the Turkish Empire now address on every
Sunday an aggregate of from 18,000 to 20,-
000 hearers.
Of the two hundred and ninety five Con
gregational Churches in Connecticut, one
hundred and eighty-two are over a hundred
years old. A great many have exceedingly
venerable buildings.
A band of Waldenses, who settled in South
America, found their enterprise a failure
and removed to Missouri. They have there
established a Waldensian Church, which is
already in a thriving condition.
Joseph Smith, Jr., son of the founder of
the Mormon Church, is preaching in Califor
nia. He denies the headship of Brigham
Young. He says that he has from 12,000 to
15,000 personal followers, and that the head
quarters of the reformed Church are at
Plano, 111.
The secularization or confiscation of the
monasteries and convents in Greece is pro
posed. There are now 138 monasteries and
7 nunneries, with 1.729 monks and 168 nuns
in Greece. The yearly income of the con
ventual property is about SIOO,OOO, and the
and the full value of the monasteries is es
timated at from $6,000,000 to $10,000,000.
At the opening of anew Roman Catholic
church, in Bradford, Eng., to theerectiou ot
which a number of Protestants had subscrib
ed, Monsignor Capel remarked that it was
right for Catholics to receive such contribu
tions, but, they could not in return give to
Protestant churches, because they believed
the fundamental principles of Protestant
ism to be wrong.
At Paehuca, Mexico, Sunday, September
3d, seventy three were received on probaiiou
into the M. E. Cnuruch, and after the public
services were closed the people would not re
tire, so hungry were they for the Word ; so
that the preacher, the Rev. J. W. Butler,
had to continue exhorting, singing, and pray
ing for another hall-hour, and might, it his
strength had allowed, have continued for an
hour aud a half.
The Presbyterian Board of Foreign Mis
sions closed the month of September with
$9,540 less receipts—even including special
gifts forthe debt —than were reported at the
same date last year. The debt of $30,188,
which was reported at the Assembly, has
therefore increased to $45,728. This does
not include the usual shortcoming of the
Summer months, which would amount to
many thousands, but is a decrease from the
Summer receipts of 1875.
The Parent Missionary Society of the
British Wesleyan Church received during the
past year about eight hundred thousand dol
lars iu gold, and reports the following mis
sionary statistics: Ceutral or principal sta
tions, 651 ; chapels and other preaching
places, 5,990; ministers and assistant mis
sionaries, 797 ; other paid agents. 5,167 ;
unpaid agents, as Sabbath-school teachers,
22,614 ; full and accredited Church members,
136,189; on trial for Church membership,
18,476; scholars in the mission schools,
146,418; printing establishments, 5.
The American Board began its sixty-sev
enth annual meeting on the 3d inst., at Hart
ford, Conn., Kev. Ur. Mark Hopkins pre
siding. The annual report alludes to the
lack of theological students ready for mis
sionary service. The receipts for the year
were: Ordinary donations $346,118; to ex
tinguish the debt, $40,463 ; Centennial off
ering, $7,037; total, $393,620. The legacies
were $64,891; other sources, $6,930. En
tire income, $405,442. Expenses, $452,
168 66. Last year’s debt was $44,323. Pres
ent deficit, $31,050. This is a hopeful state
ment as the debt has decreased $13,273,