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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,